


Dreamweaver

by Bookboy



Series: Cin Vehtin [6]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: AmayaNatsuya's slave culture, But also one quick instance of the frank discussion of infanticide, Dubious Consent, Escape from slavery, F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I don't have a sleep schedule anymore, I have a loose napping schedule, It's not a nice situation, Kinda, M/M, Mandalorian Culture, Mindwiping, Moral Relativism, Multi, Multiple Points of View, Oh Coruscanti culture too I guess, Slavery, Storytelling, and all the rainbow of ways they can mix, but there IS a happy ending i promise, cause that's the boat I'm in rn, clone culture, fialleril's slave culture, rating mostly for swearing and oblique sexual content, seriously, someone send help, thought I should tag it just in case, you ever not want to tag the characters so you don't spoil the ending?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:06:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 20
Words: 59,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26266201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookboy/pseuds/Bookboy
Summary: Taroa Storyteller doesn't remember a time before his mask.But it remembers him.
Relationships: OC/OC
Series: Cin Vehtin [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1631416
Comments: 29
Kudos: 45





	1. Mask

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Shape-Changer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4678835) by [Fialleril](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fialleril/pseuds/Fialleril). 
  * Inspired by [Lead Me From Fear To Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7394932) by [AmayaNatsuya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmayaNatsuya/pseuds/AmayaNatsuya). 
  * Inspired by [The Desert Storm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18206480) by [Blue_Sunshine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sunshine/pseuds/Blue_Sunshine). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For translations, please refer to the Glossary.

The first thing Taroa remembered was being thrown in his cell, the laughter of the Depuran in his ears. Even in that first memory, he was wearing the mask. 

He knew, logically, that something must have come before that first memory. That when he was thrown in his cell, he had been brought from the mind-wipers- the past-stealers. No man just sprung from nothing, not even slaves. But what that something might have been, he had very little idea. 

But he knew, whatever he was before, that he was always a slave. 

He knew this, because even that first night, with his head throbbing and bitter tears of pain and loss seeping under his mask to irritate the skin of his face, marks on his body he didn’t remember receiving, he remembered words and stories and a promise. 

Ka’ra, the stars, which were hope and history and future. 

The Depuran, the slavers, the ones he hated and had always haunted his people. 

First, the slave that fought his way free; Ekkereth, the Trickster; Ar-Amu, the All-Mother.

_ I tell you this story to save your life, little brother. Will you remember? _

Slave stories, slave words, slave names. The stories were fragmented, and he knew he’d forgotten more than he remembered, but he remembered enough of them to know to not share them. He remembered that what the Depuran do not know about, they cannot take. So for the first few days, he lay alone in his cell, and he did not speak, but he did whisper what he could remember to himself, lips forming the words but no breath, no sound to them, cementing the stories in his mind as best he could. 

He had no idea why he could remember what he did; Depur took nearly everything else. Name, family, past. If he concentrated, he could almost recall little tidbits of memories; a smile, an embrace, laughter. He thought he may have had a father, which mostly stuck out to him as strange because in all the stories there are only mothers, but he couldn’t quite shake the certainty that it is a father he remembers. The vague sense of hefting a child to his hip makes him think he may have had a younger sibling- or a child of his own. He prayed if it was the latter, the child at least still had their mother. 

What he knew for certain, though, is Leia and Lukkamar would come for him. 

Not the actual gods themselves, of course; those lived on the far-off world of Tatooine, where there were sandstorms and Krayt dragons, he knew. No, it is his elder siblings that were coming for him. He didn’t have any idea how he knew that, but he knew it with a certainty that he felt down to his bones. Whenever he tried to remember their True Names, or anything about them, he only came upon the wounds in his mind where Depur had torn away himself, but his mind filled in the blank spots with the names, and they felt strangely right. He knew they couldn’t be, but without anything better to call them, he decided to stick with it. 

Well, that’s not quite true. He could remember one thing about one of them; their voice. 

When he told the stories back to himself, they echoed in his mind; but not in his own voice. No, he heard a sibilant, accented voice, rich and warm, telling them to him. He might have thought it the voice of his maybe-father, as it is masculine and reassuring, but every story ended the same way:  _ I tell you this story to save your life, little brother. Will you remember? _

He had no real reason to believe he’s right, but he called the voice Lukkamar. 

It was a week before he saw anyone but a laughing, sneering Zygerian guard, mocking him or carelessly tossing food or water in his general direction. And when he did, he wished he hadn’t. 

The guards, Depur’s enforcers, came for him. They don’t even give him a chance to cooperate; they simply grabbed and dragged him through the halls and out into blinding daylight. They shoved him into a courtyard of packed earth and high stone walls, and he came face to face with a brutish looking Twi’lek, taller and broader than he. 

The Twi’lek charged at him with a battle cry. He responded on instinct, mind going blank in panic. 

When he came back to himself, breath quick and hands trembling with adrenaline, it was the laughter of Depur and the Twi’lek at his feet, groaning, that he came back to. He looked up to the top of the wall, where there was a viewing box, and saw his Depur for the first time, lounging with a cruel grin as he laughed. “Next!” his Depur demanded, and the guards came and dragged the Twi’lek away, the Twi’lek beginning to plead thickly through his broken nose, but Depur’s enforcers paid him no mind. A human man replaced the Twi’lek. 

By the fourth man, he understood. He didn’t remember training to be a gladiator, but he must have, to have his movements be literally thoughtless. And Depur meant for him to fight Depur’s other slaves for his amusement. 

When Depur tired of him, and sent him away back to his cell, he looked at his own hands and wondered how much blood was upon them. 

The next time Depur sent for him, several days later, he refused to fight. This did not please Depur, and he learned why the Twi’lek was pleading. He was dragged away, but not to his cell; no, they took him to another place, and bound his hands to a post, and lashed him with light-whips until he was bloody and sagging against the bonds. They punished him. Only then did they return him to his cell. 

For a time, he didn’t know how long, he lay where he was dropped, wallowing in his pain and his own blood. Eventually, someone came; another slave, in a blinking slave collar, a bowl of water in her hands and a satchel on her shoulder. The violet-hued woman hesitated when she saw him, her eyes going wide and fear quickening her breath. 

“What is that on his face?” she dared to ask the guard escorting her, horror in her voice. 

“A mask,” the guard shrugged. “Guess Lieutenant Jundice doesn’t want anyone recognizing him. Can’t imagine why, though. Just another gladiator slave.” 

“A mask?” she repeated, some of the fear fading as she knelt beside him, though none of the horror. “It looks like a muzzle.” 

The guard shrugged. “I’ll collect you in an hour. Remember, no pain medication.” And they were alone. 

The woman set to work, opening her satchel and arranging medicines and tools around herself, then helping him turn onto his front so she could tend his back. She wet a cloth, and washed his wounds; though it was tainted by pain, it was the first gentle touch he had felt in his memory, and he pressed up into it with tears in his eyes. 

She sang softly, soothingly as she worked. Singer, he recognized. Under the mask, he licked his lips nervously, considering for a long moment, but eventually, he dared to whisper. 

“Has someone told you a story?” 

She paused, and for a nanosecond he hoped, but when she met his eyes, she was merely confused. No understanding. “Of... course. But not since I was a little girl. If you prefer stories rather than songs for distraction, though, I know a few.” 

His heart shattered. 

He nodded anyway, the tears in his eyes caused less by physical pain and more by sorrow now. She told a story as she worked; a simple little thing about a naughty child that wandered astray and got lost, only to find a very improbable little house occupied by a very improbable little host. The host was kind, and returned the child, but the host and their little house vanished, leaving the child with nothing but a story. It was a nice story, and she told it well; but there was no lesson to it, no secret knowledge, no mythic language, no  _ hope _ . It wasn’t a slave story. 

When Depur sent for him the next time, he fought. 

  
  
  


He became what Depur made of him. He lurked in the dark and was unleashed only to hurt his fellow slaves. Sometimes there were weapons, sometimes only his bare hands. He was unsurprised to learn he knew many of the weapons. Depur called him Strill. The guards mockingly called him No-Face. The Singer, Blenda, called him Mask when she came to mend him. 

He did not speak to anyone, really; the only thoughts he had were either Depur’s, and he had no desire to glorify him by speaking his words if he didn’t have to, or Ekkereth’s, and he would not betray them. He gained a reputation among Blenda and the other Singers; while he was cooperative, he was also silent. He asked every new slave he met exactly one question: “Has someone told you a story?” When he was met with nothing but confusion and offerings of stories that are not slave stories, he listened dutifully but didn't speak again. It became known among the Singers that he prefered stories over songs, even though he never commented on them or offered any of his own, didn’t offer any conversation or reach out any more than that one question. The guards tittered that the mind-wipe must have left him an idiot. He knew better, so he let them have their titters. He offered no words at all to the guards. 

He had lost track of the days, but not how many times he had spoken, when he met a new Singer. She was an old woman, with silver hair and sharp jade eyes, face lined and craggy. Like the others, she knelt beside him, and wet a cloth, and touched him gently. He held still, despite the pain. 

For the sixth time, he asked, not truly expecting much, “Has someone told you a story?” 

Her eyes met his, and they were steady. “I have been told many stories, and retold them many times.” 

His heart leapt. He hardly dared to speak the next part, but forced the words out anyway. “Who told you those stories?” 

A tiny, secret smile curled her mouth. “My mother, child.” 

“Why did they tell you those stories?” 

“To save my life.” She looked back to her work, a soft chuckle spilling from her lips. “I had wondered about you, young man. They told me when I got here that you always asked for a story rather than a song, but never seemed  _ quite _ satisfied with the stories you were told. I’m pleased to know I was right, Child of Ar-Amu.” 

“Grandmother.” He clutched desperately at her hand, and she paused in her work, her grip in return like a vise. He wept silent tears of relief. 

“Oh child,” she sighed, smoothing his hair. “Hush now. Don’t waste the water.” 

He obeyed, if only because when the tears dried the salt would itch and irritate his skin under the mask, where he could not reach. He hadn’t been thirsty yet here, not like in the stories. He didn’t relinquish her hand. 

He learned the woman’s name was Bali. When she asked his name, he revealed that he didn’t have one. So she gave him one. A True Name, to keep in his heart of hearts and know when they called him Strill or No-Face or Mask. He became Taroa. 

Bali came more often than any other Singer, after that. In the snatched hours here and there, over the mending of his flesh, she taught him. He learned that he was a slave of Zygerria, not the Hutts, and that was why the Depuran were different and there were no children of Ar-Amu; while the two Depuran kingdoms sometimes traded slaves, they largely kept to themselves, and the Zygerian slaves had secrets of their own. He learned the words of these new slaves, a language called  Sleantah , and the ways of these Depuran. He learned that it was commonplace to steal the pasts and memories of slaves here, and because of that, she had only ever met three other Amavikkan in this place. The past-stealers tended to take everything save skills of the hands and language; stories too. So the slaves here had a secret language, but no stories. He told her what stories he remembered; she filled in the blanks and told him new ones. She taught him the secret signs and sacred sigils and the songs. 

He told her what little he could remember of his old life. Some of his words, she didn’t know; they had different words for father, brother, stars. Neither did she know his story of First, the slave that made himself free, or the stories of the Warriors in the Stars. They realized that his past life must have been more complicated than just simply a slave of the Hutts, but beyond that they could only speculate. He told her Leia and Lukkamar were coming. She smiled vaguely and he could tell she was humoring him; but she didn’t contradict him. He knew why. Hope was precious and kept you alive as surely as water; so any kind of hope was precious, even impossible hopes. 

All slave hopes were impossible hopes, anyway. 

She became his mother. He became her son. It was a blessing he thanked Ar-Amu for and he loved her whole-heartedly, but he did not forget that he had a family before her. He knew his siblings were coming. 

The Mighty One would come with the Storm. 

  
  
  


A year after he met his mother, Depur called him up again, but this time it was not a simple match between him and one of his brother-slaves. Depur’s enforcers dressed him in a few plates of dirty white armor, and gave him a weapon, and sent him into a much larger arena than normal, with a ring of faces around the top, watching. He faced a man he did not recognize. 

Depur called it a tournament, and said it was to the death. Taroa supposed he had killed before, even if he did not remember, so he did not hesitate. 

Three more men died by his hand at Depur’s command, and he was pronounced the winner. Taroa found no pride in it. 

However, his living conditions improved. Depur said it was a reward for doing well in the tournament and winning him much money in bets. He recalled Ekkereth’s wisdom, bowed his head, and thanked him. His new room was much more comfortable, with a real bed and a table and a refresher, but it was still a cell. 

He won many more tournaments, but he never forgot it was just a cell, and his mask was a chain. 

  
  
  


Four years after meeting his mother, Taroa felt he was doing fairly well for himself. He had a suite now, several rooms. He was allowed to claim a Singer for himself for his personal physician as a prize the previous year, so his mother lived with him in the suite. He was proud to offer her comforts most slaves could never have, and he knew she was pleased to accept them from him and return the favors. They were not allowed a full kitchen, even Depur was not foolish enough to leave an unsupervised knife or heavy pan within reach of the undefeated Strill, but a hotplate and a kettle were allowed, and Bali used them to make a strong tea with milk. It wasn’t quite tzai, she said, but it was impossible to get the ingredients here and he did not remember the taste of tzai for himself anyway. It’s the gesture that mattered, so he drank it with relish. He had a datapadd with books on it- no outside connection, and all approved by Depur, of course, but he cherished it for the precious thing he knew it was all the same. He was allowed not only a full refresher with a bath, but also to weekly visit the slave’s bath-house, where all Depur’s slaves made themselves presentable. 

He was favored by Depur, and even his enforcers treated him with some decency. They still called him No-Face, but they did not drag him to the arena any longer, merely led, and he followed with downcast eyes, his silence to them unbroken. They thought  _ he _ was broken. They did not realize his silence and his downcast eyes were his rebellion, his silent declaration that he would choose who he talked to and who he looked at.

In that steamy bath-house, where Depur’s and his enforcer’s prying eyes were turned away and whispers were hidden in the hissing of water on hot stones, he and Bali told the stories of Ekkereth and Ar-Amu and Leia and Lukkamar and First and the Star Warriors. Bali truly took her place as Grandmother in this strange house of Depur. Only in the steam did he speak, and while at first the others were frightened of his mask, they came to know him as Taroa, the Storyteller; Taroa their Ori’vod. He planted seeds of hope and nurtured them with wisdom, and found pride in the teaching. Every time a slave disappeared, sold on, he prayed they kept at least some of the stories after they visited the past-stealers. 

But by far his most precious luxury was the window. 

In the main room of his prison, was a single window. It overlooked the smaller arena, where he fought informally to the blood instead of tournaments to the death, Depur clearly thinking it a clever mockery of the hope of escape. But Taroa looked further. At night, he could sit in his comfortable chair, and watch the moon and the stars, and knew someone, Ar-Amu and Star Warriors, were looking back, and they were coming. 

He did not often think of his siblings anymore. But he kept the hope alive in his heart of hearts. Hope and a name and tzai and stories and whispers in steam; it was enough. 

  
  
  


It was during this fourth year after he met his mother that he was brought a woman. 


	2. Layla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Layla Tikeri was her mother's daughter, and she will not be made a slave.

Layla Tikeri was not one to be frightened easily. At all, really. As the daughter and heir apparent of a ruthless businesswoman that regularly did business with a rainbow of partners including Correllians, the Trade Federation, the Banking Clan, Mandalorians, and the Zygerians, as a girl that grew up in the rough underbelly of Coruscant, she had learned how to not be afraid early on in life. 

But as the daughter also of a practical woman, she was also brutally honest about her own shortcomings and weaknesses. She was not a physically strong woman, slight even though she was tall by human standard. She was hot tempered and headstrong. And she was beautiful. Normally she wouldn’t count beauty as a weakness, rather a strength, but in her current situation, she was forced to consider it otherwise. 

Strill scared her. 

She had already been nervous, in a vague way, when the slaver sleemo that had bought her had instructed his slaves to “spruce her up”, which apparently involved a quite thorough scrubbing in a well-equipped spa, then dressed her in a flimsy, gauzy thing that was more the suggestion of clothing than the actual thing. They replaced her bulky, standard slave collar with a sleek seamless silver one that was very much like the Alderanni jewelry she preferred- a coincidence, she was certain it wasn’t- matching binders on her wrists, and anklets on her feet that tinkled with a thousand tiny bells when she moved. They coiffed her hair and painted her face like a whore. That nervousness had grown to a full-blown queasy feeling as she had been dragged like that, half naked and jingling, to sit at the feet of her “Master”. 

Kyzeron smirked, looking down his nose at her, and she glared back. She had never had any affection for the man, but now she downright loathed him. 

His heavy hand landed on the back of her neck, forcing her to look down into the arena below. A pair of men, both heavily armed and armored, were fighting viciously. They were both bleeding, either this was just one of many matches or they were evenly matched.

“Take a good look, slut,” Kyzeron snarled. “One of those two brutes is your future.” 

Layla felt her belly go cold and between her legs clench. 

“Which do you hope wins?” he continued arily, wicked glee in his voice. “Ticknor there, the Zabrak, already has three other women, and six bastards between them. You’ll be bred and full of a bastard of your own before the year is out with him. I’ve heard he’s relentless with his women. But sister whores will be good company and ease the burdens of... pleasing him, no?” 

Layla recoiled in disgust. Kyzeron didn’t wait for an answer. 

“Now on the other hand, Strill there, he has no woman. He might be impotent or even wholly uninterested in women, who knows? But if he isn’t, then he’s pent up. And he’s quiet. They say he never speaks a word except to the old woman that looks after him. You know what they say about quiet ones.” His voice suddenly dropped, becoming dangerous. “My money’s on Strill. He’s never lost a tournament.” 

Those were good odds. Layla considered the human man below. His skin was a washed-out tan, like it was made for sunny weather but he had spent his life indoors, and his hair was shaggy, thick curls that hung past his shoulders, darkly colored. His body was hard and muscular, obvious even under the dirty white armor pieces and loose black pants he wore; a shoulder piece, chest and upper back plates, shin guards and bracers. He wielded a pole arm of some kind currently, and every time it struck something, she could hear the brutal force behind the blows even from this far away. 

She waited for a look at his face, and when he turned, she gasped in surprise. Between his hair hanging in his face and a dirty white mask that covered the bottom half of his face and matched his armor, all she could make out of his features was a pair of flinty, glinting eyes. Somehow, even though Ticknor was the one with horns, Strill was the one that looked most like a demon.

Ticknor feighted. Strill did not fall for it. 

In three quick movements, the pole slammed into Ticknor’s stomach, causing him to double, then slammed into the back of his head, sending him sprawling. A quick, almost showy twirl brought the other end, tipped with a blade, to bear, and in a blink, it was buried in Ticknor’s back. 

The Zabrak spasmed and fell still. Layla felt her face go pale as the audience erupted into wild applause. Strill stood tall and lifted his weapon, dripping with blood, over his head in triumph. 

“Well, that’s that,” Kyzeron proclaimed gleefully. He stood, yanking her to her own feet by the binders. “Let’s go meet your new man.” 

The yanking on the binders, leading her forward, finally snapped Layla out of her stupor. “No!” she shrieked, leaning back against his pull and doing her best to dig in. “How dare you-you karking auction me off like some  _ breeding sow! _ Do you know who I am-!” 

Kyzeron laughed, thoroughly amused by her struggles and shouts, and forced her to stumble along. Layla struggled harder, panic making her chest tight. 

_ No Mom to bail you out this time, little bird, _ she thought, strangely serene. 

They moved through the mansion- strictly speaking, she was sure the term was probably palace, but she didn’t want to give these sons of trills the satisfaction of the implication of nobility- until they reached a more heavily guarded section. They turned a corner, and she spied them. 

Standing before a door was Strill and a Zygerian in a military uniform she didn’t recognize. Strill was shorter than she had realized, the top of his head only coming up to her chin. She was also able to see more details of the mask; it was smooth, nearly featureless, except for a dark slash of a mouth that looked like an angular frown and reminded her of something else, though she couldn't quite put her finger on what. She almost wanted to say it looked like a skull, but that wasn't quite right. He was also filthy and sweaty and still bleeding, but stood still in an almost military posture, shoulders back, feet planted shoulder width apart and hands behind his back, though his eyes were turned toward the ground. She wondered vaguely if he was just tired or hiding annoyance. 

Strill didn’t look up when they rounded the corner, but the Zygerian turned towards them with a sharp, toothy grin. “Ah, the prize!” he exclaimed, like a host receiving a guest. 

At that, Strill did look up, his eyes narrowed. They were brown, Layla noticed, and she couldn’t read them at all. 

The strange Zygerian spoke to him without even looking at him. “Strill, this is this tournament’s prize. A beauty, isn’t it?” 

Layla bared her teeth at the alien. He laughed. 

“Such spirit! I’m sure she’ll settle a few brats in. Your prowess and her fire... I expect much of your children.” 

A host of new, horrifying possibilities she hadn’t had time yet to realize flared to life. Oh,  _ hell _ no. She reared back. “I will not be used as breeding stock,” she hissed. 

Both Zygerians did the most horrifyingly humiliating thing they had done yet. They completely ignored her. 

“Remember, I claim first buyer’s rights on their first son,” Kyzeron said cheerfully, like she hadn’t even spoken. 

“I expect nothing less, my friend. Now, I’m sure Strill is eager to take his prize.” 

Kyzeron’s smile was slow and cruel. “Of course.” Roughly, he shoved her in Strill’s direction. She stumbled and this time, nearly fell flat on her face. 

Nearly. 

Strong arms caught her, lifting her to her feet. She shuddered and jerked away. His hand didn’t leave her, though, the large, calloused hand curling around her bicep and squeezing warningly. 

Strill didn’t look at her, instead turning back to his Master. He inclined his head again, and in a flat, raspy, disused voice, murmured, "Thank you, Master." 

Quiet ones. Layla suppressed a sob of terror. She did indeed know what they said about quiet ones. 

The Zygerian nodded graciously and flicked his fingers, dismissing them carelessly. Strill withdrew, face still turned down, his hand on her arm pulling her along, into the room. She resisted. He didn't even seem to notice. 

The instant the door shut, he released her. Layla yelped as her own struggling caused her to tumble backwards, landing on a soft couch.

She blinked, looking around herself in shock. It was... an apartment? It looked... surprisingly genteel, all things considered. She had expected at least stone walls. Not a window.

"Son?" Layla whipped towards a new voice, finding a weathered old woman standing there, concern on her brow. 

"Mother," Strill replied, voice still raspy, but warm and respectful now instead of flat. He moved to her, reaching out; the old woman reached back with a fond little smile, clasping his arm and allowing him to press his brow to hers. 

"What's the damage?" she asked, a veneer of teasing over a deadly serious question. 

"Nothing but scratches," he replied, similar proportions of teasing and seriousness. 

The old woman relaxed. "Mother be praised." Strill nodded agreement.

"Here." He handed something to her- a tiny silver key. The key to her binders, Layla recognized. "I can take care of myself. She needs a Grandmother more than I need a singer." 

Something unspoken was in those words, Layla could tell. And what in the black void was a singer? Did the old woman sing to him? Was that her primary duty or something? The old woman smiled, a tiny little half-smile. "Does she, now?" 

Strill nodded, and without another word, marched from the room. 

Layla blinked after him, feeling like she had whiplash. Maybe he was... saving her for later? Her nose wrinkled in disgust at the thought.

She blinked when she realized the old woman was now standing in front of her, a wry grin on her face. For someone so old, she could move fast, and quietly. The woman held out a hand, key in the other; Layla gave her her wrists, but kept one eye on the doorway Strill had disappeared through. 

The old woman noticed and chuckled. "Relax, girl," she murmured as she lifted the cuffs from her wrists. "Your body will remain your own, at least for today." 

Layla nodded, rubbing at the bruised skin, but didn't quite believe her. 

The old woman, Bali she introduced herself as, helped her clean her face and loaned her something more substantial to wear. It was obviously Bali's clothes, the hemlines too short on her, but they were solid fabrics and warm, so Layla tried not to be ungrateful, and graciously ignored Bali carefully folding and tucking the gauzy outfit and binders away for safekeeping. No way in all the Correllian Hells would either of those things be going back on her. 

When she was dressed again, Bali sat her down at a little table in a kitchenette and began to heat water in a battered old kettle. 

"Tell me, child," Bali broke the silence as she pondered over a selection of cannisters, "Has anyone ever told you a story?" 

Layla blinked at the non sequitur. "What are you talking about?" she snapped irritably. 

The older woman smiled, a small, wry kind of smile, and picked a canister. “Would you like to hear one?” 

Layla groaned, rolling her eyes. “No thanks. I don’t have the patience for fairy tales right now.” Bali snorted, and she ignored her, sizing up the window instead. “That thing open?” she asked, casual as she could manage. 

“Don’t bother, child.” 

Layla rounded on the old woman, snarling. “I’m not going to just  _ sit here- _ ” 

“Very well. What’s your plan for the collar?” 

She sputtered, brought up short by the sudden 180. “Wha- well, I... I’ll find the remote. It has to be around here somewhere.” 

“Sound reasoning,” Bali nodded, sounding infuriatingly like a mom humoring her kid. “But it’s a big house, and a detonator remote is small. How are you going to find it?” 

Layla snarled. “There’s always a way to find something if you really want to. I’d just need to figure out a convenient window of opportunity.” 

“And how are you going to avoid being noticed as you skulk about, looking for that which you are most definitely not supposed to have?” 

The analytical part of her brain, the one that kicked on when her mom turned to her with that challenging glint in her eye and asked ‘what do you think, little bird?’, finally put in an appearance, and Layla answered carefully. “What do you mean?” 

“The bells,” Bali clarified, gesturing to her bare feet. Layla jolted. 

“Um... I can take off jewelry, I’m not that pathetic.” 

“Can you?” Bali drawled. 

“Yeah, of course I...” she paused, eyes narrowing suspiciously. Looked at one of the anklets closer. Swore a blue streak. 

The anklet was a fine chain, locked. She tugged on it, trying to break the links, but it was stronger than it looked, and fairly snug against her skin, so she could slip a finger underneath it but slipping it off was not going to happen. Horror dawned on her, and she looked up into Bali’s green and knowing eyes. 

Bali nodded, placing a mug of some flowery tea down in front of her. “Thought not.” She sat with her own mug and a sigh. “The slavers’ chains come in many sizes and forms, child, and are not easily slipped. It’s best you start learning.” 

Layla felt her belly turn to ice and her heart sink. She looked to the window again, to the distant treeline and the blue sky outside; so close, and yet so far. Her mind raced, desperately running calculation after calculation, and repeatedly coming up with the same answer. The previously light little anklets suddenly seemed very heavy. She met Bali’s eyes again, and the old woman’s eyes were sympathetic and knowing. Bali reached over, and pushed the mug closer to her. 

“Lesson two; find comfort where you can,” she murmured. 

Layla swallowed thickly, and picked up the mug. 


	3. The Bath-House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Layla learns some things and makes a friend.

It turned out being a slave is boring. 

Strill kept out of sight the rest of that first day, only coming out to get dinner when it arrived, taking the food back to his room. The next day, he emerged, but he kept his distance and mostly just talked with Bali in low voices, eyes downcast and body curled in on himself to make him smaller. He also changed into casual, comfy clothes, and pulled his hair back in a loose bun, which actually did wonders for his face even with the omnipresent mask. Layla realized he was trying to make her feel less threatened; which was confusing as kark, but also actually kinda helped. Either he was a total sociopath trying to lull her into a false sense of security, or he was genuinely trying to be nice, and she couldn’t tell but she also couldn’t really see it mattering either way. The punchline was she wasn’t raped yet, and if she played her cards right, she might not be, and that was a pretty decent punchline if she did say so herself. 

He was still scary, though, if only because she knew he could break her in half if he wanted, and if it turned out he was a sociopath or he just ever changed his mind there was nothing she could do about it. Every time his eyes met hers, she saw Ticknor falling still and Strill standing triumphantly over his dead body, and had to suppress a shudder.

Bali hummed and puttered about, always doing  _ something _ but never actually seeming to accomplish much of anything. There wasn’t really any chores at all to do, as far as Layla could tell; their food was delivered already prepared, laundry was taken away and returned promptly, and none of them were messy. Regardless, the only time she stopped was when Strill came out from the further reaches of the apartment to chat with her. When he did, Bali would smile and make tea, then sit with him either at the kitchenette table or in her rocking chair in the corner with Strill at her feet like an overgrown child as they talked in hushed voices. Layla couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, their words just on the cusp of too quiet to make out, and it was surreal as kark to watch, but that was the only time Bali was still. It seemed the old woman was just moving to move. By the end of the second day, she empathized with the urge completely, but still didn’t join her. 

Instead, Layla tucked herself onto the window ledge, sullenly silent, staring out at the distant treeline, and plotted her escape, with a side of fantasizing about her revenge on Kyzeron and every other low-life that had dared to touch her and press her into slavery. 

Layla Tikeri was nothing if not her mother’s daughter. 

A month passed like that. Strill skulked about, a ghost in his own apartment, Bali puttered and hummed, and Layla stared out the window and plotted. The only breaks in the monotony was when other slaves dropped in, delivering food or picking up washing and usually sharing a few words of gossip with Bali; Strill was called away to the arena in his dirty white armor- Layla only left her window then, after she realized the window overlooked the arena; and the visits to the bath-house. 

It turned out Zygerians were hygiene freaks. They liked saunas and long, luxurious baths, and they insisted everyone around them was similarly clean. Including the slaves. So all the household slaves were required to keep themselves clean and inoffensive to sensitive Zygerian noses, and other classes of slaves that orbited the house but didn’t work directly in it- like gladiators- were allowed to visit the slaves’ bath-house as a privilege. Strill and his satellites, which included her now, were allowed to visit the slaves’ bath-house once a week. The average Zygerian, Bali explained to her when they were getting ready to go the first time, was very private and selective about who they shared their baths with in freeman bath-houses, but slaves didn’t have that luxury. Instead, all the slaves all washed together without any privacy in the slaves’ bath-house, which wasn’t actually a separate structure but a room in the slaves’ quarters of the mansion, and apparently it doubled as a kind of slave social club. 

Bali warned her to not be surprised. But that hadn’t quite prepared her for what she walked into, trailing after Bali and Strill and the slave that had come to get them, clutching the front of her thin robe shut. Layla hadn’t ever really considered herself a prude, per se, and her mom constantly bemoaned her fashion choices as too revealing, but she still had  _ some _ modesty _. _

A tiled room with six large, pool-style bathtubs, the walls lined with showerheads, and an arched entryway on the far wall from which steam was emanating, absolutely crowded with wet, naked people of both genders, several different species, and the entire range of ages from baby to elderly, spit in the face of her idea of modesty. 

A near-human woman about her own age, with lavender skin and midnight blue hair, giggled at her dropped jaw and red face. Unashamed of her own nakedness, she placed a friendly arm around Layla and guided her towards one of the unused showerheads on the side of the room that seemed to be primarily women. “ So'lanai, new girl,” she giggled. “New to Zygeria or the life?” 

“Uh- the life?” Layla croaked, eyes darting around, not sure where to look. Everywhere she looked there was exposed skin, and- oh sweet Force that was Bali naked. She looked at Blenda, focusing on her face.

It was a question, but the other woman nodded like it was an answer. “I can tell,” she mused wryly, turning on the neighboring showerhead and beginning to soap up a cloth. “My name’s Blenda.” 

“Layla.” 

Blenda nodded in acknowledgement. “You were given to Mask, right?” 

“Ma-? Oh, Strill?” Layla grimaced, glancing over to the other side of the room, where Strill was efficiently scrubbing himself down under another showerhead. “Yeah, apparently the sleemo that owns me now wants us to have lots of little gladiator babies.” 

Blenda frowned, her fine eyebrows furrowing. “You shouldn’t talk like that.” 

Layla felt her lip curl in a sneer. “What, calling that piece of-” 

“Well, yes,” Blenda cut her off, her voice lowering a touch. “It’s dangerous to talk about the Masters like that. For you, and those around you. It’s relatively harmless here in the bath-house, but it’s a bad habit to cultivate. Anyway, I was mostly talking about calling Mask Strill.” 

Layla frowned. What? “Isn’t that his name?” 

Blenda’s lip twitched in the ghost of a wry smile, something bitterly amused glinting in her eyes. “That’s what our Master calls him. But we are not them.” Her eyebrow arched, and suddenly Layla was reminded strikingly of her friend Jilly back on Coruscant, and Layla felt her throat close around a sob. “Have you ever heard Bali call him Strill?” 

Mutely, Layla shook her head. Blenda wasn’t done, though. 

“Has he ever introduced himself as Strill?” 

“No,” she snapped, a bit more rudely than she meant to, but Blenda didn’t seem to take any offense. 

A wet violet hand landed on her arm, squeezing lightly in emphasis, her dark eyes serious. “Do you see?” 

Layla frowned, the analytical part of her brain coming to the forefront again. Mom would be so proud. She shoved the thought away before she could start crying, focusing instead on what Blenda had said and implied. “So... the name Strill is an... insult?” Blenda’s expression went approving, encouraging, so Layla pressed on. “And calling him Mask isn’t.” 

“Close,” Blenda chuckled, releasing her arm and starting to wash her hair. “He didn’t choose Strill. Our Master forced it on him, like his collar. Calling him Mask instead is... kinder.” 

Layla pressed on. “Because he chose it?” 

Another mysterious, wry ghost of a smile. “No. Still not quite there.” 

Layla tamped down her frustration and tried again. “Because... our Master,” she wrinkled her nose in disgust at the title but Blenda nodded approval, “ _ didn’t _ choose it?” 

Blenda smiled brightly, pleased. “Yes, that’s part of it.” 

Layla leaned against the tile wall, arms still crossed in front of her, but thoughtfully now instead of defensively. “Why is Strill an insult? What does it mean?” 

Blenda startled, her eyes going wide. “You don’t know?” 

“Obviously not, or I wouldn’t have asked,” Layla quipped shortly, rolling her eyes. 

But Blenda didn’t get upset at her rudeness. Instead, her eyes went to Strill across the room, just finishing his washing and marching towards the sauna next, disappearing into the steam. Her gaze was sad. 

“A strill,” Blenda murmured softly, “is an animal from Mandalore. Clever, vicious, and ugly. I’ve heard some Masters that have Mandalorians in their employ use their strills to track down runaways and punish them in the arena. It’s a rare humanoid that can move faster than a strill.” She turned her gaze to the ceiling, finishing rinsing her hair. "Mandalorians keep them as pets, and train them as hunting animals.” 

Oh.  _ Oh.  _ Suddenly, Layla felt weirdly guilty. 

“Well how was I supposed to know that?” she snapped defensively. 

“You aren’t,” Blenda shrugged, dismissive and absolving all at once. “But that is why if you can, you always ask a slave what they prefer to be called. It’s a kindness.” 

Layla nodded slowly. That made sense. Why she didn’t just come out and  _ say _ it, though, Layla had no clue. “Why do you want to be kind to him?” 

The look that entered into Blenda’s eyes was far too old for her face. “The Masters  _ choose _ to be cruel,” she murmured. “And we are not them. We can’t choose much, but we can choose to give each other the small kindnesses.” 

Before Layla could think of anything to say in response, Blenda turned off the water and wrung out her hair, darkened to nearly black like her own by the water, and offered her a smile, simply friendly again. “You don’t have to use the bath-house if you don’t want to,” she said gently. “Mask has a full refresher in his rooms, and it’s unlikely you’re going to interact with the Masters much anyway. But I find a nice hot soak and some good conversation are good comforts, and it’s bad manners to go into the pools without at least rinsing off first.” 

Layla startled, suddenly realizing she had kind of forgotten that she was still wearing her robe while everyone else was still naked, and was the only one not using the facilities at all. If Blenda had been trying to distract her, she did a damn fine job. Now that some of her embarrassment had eased, she was able to take in more than nudity. Despite the situation, the atmosphere was more like a marketplace or a park than anything else. People moving about their business, relaxing, gossiping and laughing, kids splashing and playing. Nobody was ogling, and nobody but her was embarrassed. Really they largely casually ignored each other, like strangers on a public transport.

Of course it wasn’t completely wholesome; everyone was still naked. And she was fairly sure there were at least two couples in the pools actively having sex. 

She looked at Blenda again, and the violet woman nodded encouragingly. Not forcing her, not trying to convince her beyond that initial simple argument. Comforts where you can, Bali had said. Small kindnesses. 

Feeling her blush rise again, she slowly slid off the robe and went to put it with the others. The jingling of the bells on her ankles sounded especially loud in her ears. Keeping her gaze down and feeling her skin prickle, though just from run of the mill embarrassment rather than humiliation or a feeling of violation, which was probably what she would have felt if someone had taken the robe instead of her choosing to take it off, she went back to the showers and quickly rinsed herself off, not bothering to wash properly. The water was cool, not chilled but not heated either, and it made her clench her teeth. When she was done, she went to the pool Blenda had settled in alone. Layla slipped into the pleasantly warm water, finding a tile ledge to step and sit on, and slouched, sinking up to her neck in the water. The water was crystal clear, but it rippled, providing at least the illusion of obfuscation. She crossed her legs and her arms over her chest for good measure. 

Blenda smiled, eyes bright with amusement as she lounged in the water, but didn’t comment. Layla was glad; she was pretty sure she would say some rather rude things right now if Blenda had, her skin still prickling. Her eyes found one of the couples she had noticed earlier in the neighboring pool; she wasn’t sure if they were still having sex or not, the teenage twi’lek girl straddling the lap of the teenage Zygerian boy and she not able to see anything below their chests from this vantage, but they were at the very least kissing rather passionately. 

A foot bumped against hers, snapping her attention back to Blenda, and this time she did comment, a tiny trace of judgement in her voice. “It’s rude to stare. It’s clear they’re both willing. Small kindnesses, remember?” 

Layla scowled, flushing darker and slouching a little more. “Can’t they do that somewhere else? There’s little kids and shit here.” 

“Probably not,” Blenda shrugged. “We’re not allowed to move as freely anywhere else. This might be the only time they get together.” 

That... was depressing. More for a change of subject than anything else, she commented, “You seem to know a lot about him. Mask, I mean.” 

Blenda shrugged. “I was the first slave to meet him when he came here. I am his oldest friend.” 

Layla focused on her again, interest piqued. “He wasn’t terribly popular where he came from?” 

Blenda shot her a strange look, then shrugged. “Who knows?” 

“... uh, he does?” 

“No,” Blenda murmured slowly, her eyes narrowed consideringly. “You... Layla, don’t you know what a mind-wipe is?” 

Layla stiffened. “No, but I imagine it’s exactly what it sounds like.” 

Blenda nodded, face grave. Layla cursed, this time her surge of righteous, disgusted rage for someone other than herself. “That’s  _ barbaric-! _ ” 

“It’s common,” Blenda cut her off again, and this time her voice matched her still grave face. She shrugged. “Especially for house slaves. It protects their old Masters’ secrets, and makes them easier to control for their new Masters. Pretty much the only ones that aren’t wiped every time they’re sold are laborers or skilled slaves, and even that’s a gamble.” She shook her head, clearly dismissing the topic. “But that’s all common knowledge, and Bali can teach you that. What do you want to know about Mask?” Suddenly her tone turned teasing, and she was smiling cheekily again. “Looking for tips?” 

“Wha- no! Ugh, that's disgusting,” she shuddered, grimacing again. “No, I just wanted to ask about the mask.” She had wondered a lot about the mask, actually, but hadn’t quite dared to ask Bali about it. She didn’t want Bali reporting back to Mask and him getting angry about it or something. And asking Mask himself was obviously out of the question. 

Blenda’s smile slipped away. Layla was getting tired of the emotional 180s of this conversation. “What about it?” 

“Why does he wear it? He doesn’t even take it off at... when he’s at home.” 

“Layla,” she murmured slowly, like Layla was a particularly dull kid, “Don’t you see? Master put it on him. Haven’t you noticed he doesn’t wear a collar when all the rest of us do? He  _ can’t  _ take it off, and he’s never been without it.” She shifted forward, deadly serious. “It’s not a mask. It’s a muzzle.” 

A dangerous animal, a vicious killer, kept under control by his Master’s muzzle. Layla hated that it made sick sense. She didn't ask anything else about Mask.

Layla couldn’t help but think about it, though, when they returned to Mask’s apartment. She sat in her usual spot, her hair still damp, and stared out at the trees, but she wasn’t plotting. By the time she laid down to sleep on the soft couch in the main room, where she had been sleeping since that first night- it really was super comfy, she honestly didn’t have any complaints about it- she had almost begun to feel sorry for the man. 


	4. Turning Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Layla begins to realize that all her great revelations will come in the bath-house. 
> 
> Warning for attempted rape of a minor.

After that first month, something changed. It had seemed like their Master- who she had been told was called Lieutenant  Jundice, an officer in the Zygerian army- had forgotten Layla was there, but that theory was solidly crushed when one day, without any obvious reason, a bunch of slaves showed up with boxes of clothes and a few pieces of new furniture- a bed and a chest of drawers. 

Bali seemed surprised too, which made Layla deeply suspicious. Bali seemed to know, or at least anticipate, nearly everything Jundice did. And what she didn’t know or anticipate, she took in stride. The tough old bird was never surprised. 

The slave leading the pack, a matronly Zygerian woman, explained. “Our Master has sent these comforts as a gift for you, girl,” she explained with a shrug. “We weren’t sure what style clothes you preferred, so we brought an assortment. Feel free to keep all or none of them. If any of these you don’t like, just let the laundry girl know and we won’t send them back.” 

Layla frowned, staring at the boxes and furniture suspiciously. “Why?” she asked bluntly. 

The Zygerian woman raised a reproachful eyebrow. “You never ask why your Master does something, child. Especially when he shows you favor.” Bali nodded in solemn agreement. Layla scowled and turned back to the window. 

Bali directed them to set up the bed and chest in her bedroom, and had them leave the boxes on the bed, saying Layla would unpack them. Layla kept her declaration that she most certainly  _ wouldn’t _ to herself. The borrowed clothes from Bali were ill fitting and not a style she liked, but they also weren’t a “gift” from the man who called himself her Master. He could shove them as far as she was concerned, she’d be sending them all back unpacked with the laundry girl later that week. 

That plan was scrapped and things became more clear when Mask emerged from the deeper recesses of the apartment later that evening for dinner. He paused, eyes zeroing in on her where she sat in the window, and she resisted the urge to flinch, snapping instead, “What?” 

“You didn’t like the clothes?” he asked, softly. Not quite the flat voice he used with Jundice, but not much intonation either. What little was there was curious, and almost... disappointed. 

Wait... “What?”

“The clothes,” he repeated. “I asked our Master to send you some, since you seemed... uncomfortable.” He looked down, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his own shirt. “Sorry if I overstepped.” 

Oh sweet Force. Time to play ‘genuine kindness or manipulative sociopath?’ again. She hated that game. 

But once again, she reached the same conclusion: it didn’t matter. Either way, this man could break her in half if he wanted, tie her to his bed and rape her all night, and no one would stop or punish him. Hells, apparently the people that put her here had  _ expected  _ him to do that. She couldn’t even take her own revenge if he did, not unless she got some kind of weapon. Regardless of his motivation, it was best to stay on his good side. And blatantly rejecting what he clearly thought of as a gift from  _ himself _ was not staying on his good side. 

So she took a page out of her Mom’s book and tried to smooth things over with a lie. “No,” she insisted, trying to sweeten her tone, “That’s not it. I just... can’t pick what to change into. And I’m not done unpacking.” Yeah, that was believable. 

Mask nodded, but didn’t look up. Layla resisted the urge to swear; he clearly didn’t buy it. 

She started wearing the clothes. Like the Zygerian woman had said, there was a selection; gauzy, revealing things like that first outfit (that Bali had relocated to the chest at some point), heavy Alderani dresses, simple tunics and pants, a few other styles she didn’t recognize. She wasn’t sure if Mask would only take offense to her sending all of it back or any of it back, so she kept it all, packing it all neatly away into the chest, but she stuck to actually wearing only the most conservative things she could find. High necklines, long sleeves, and pants as much as she could. No sense in provoking any...  _ incidents. _ The bath-house was exposure enough. 

She couldn’t quite bring herself to switch to sleeping in the bed, though. Leaving the couch made everything seem too... permanent. Like she’d given up. Mask didn’t seem to take exception to it, so she didn’t worry about it. 

A week after that, a medical droid paid them a visit, and insisted on scanning her. When whatever it was scanning for came up negative, the droid issued her some capsules and some instructions. 

“Scans indicate you are 68 hours from the beginning of your next ovulation cycle,” the droid said in its toneless voice as it handed her the little bottle. “Take these in 44 hours, and have penetrative intercourse within 48 hours of beginning your cycle. They will increase your fertility by 28 percent.” 

Layla’s hand clenched around the bottle, her knuckles going white, as a ton of stuff just started making sense. 

After the droid left, she turned to glare at Mask, who was lurking in the doorway, his eyes unreadable. 

“Why does Jundice think we’re having sex?” she hissed, furious. 

Mask shrugged. “He asked me if I was enjoying your company. I told him yes.” 

Bali tsked from where she was sitting in her rocking chair, working on some kind of craft project. “It’s a dangerous game, misleading your Master, my son.” 

Mask shrugged again. “I’m used to it, Mother.” 

In a fit of rage, Layla stood from the couch and stomped over to the sink in the kitchenette, dumping the capsules out into the drain. She ran the hot water for a minute for good measure, viciously satisfied by the thought of them melting in the pipes. Fertility drugs like those were expensive. 

When she turned back, she found Bali frowning thunderously at her. “He is playing a dangerous game,” she lectured sternly, “but  _ you _ are playing a suicidal one, girl.” Primly, she turned back to her project, but didn’t stop lecturing. “Our Master’s patience isn’t going to last forever. He expects you to be pregnant sooner or later, and it’s in your best interest if it’s sooner.  _ All _ of our best interests.” 

“Mother-” Mask sighed, but she cut him off with a snap. 

“No. She needs to understand this.” Deliberately, she tied a string off, and set the project down, hard green eyes meeting Layla’s as she folded her hands on her lap. “I’ve tried to be gentle, but clearly you need a more blunt explanation. Unless you’re planning to do something drastic, you are going to have Mask’s baby one way or another, and probably several more after. The only choice you have left in that is how the child is conceived. Either do whatever drastic thing you’re thinking of, or do what you need to do to make that acceptable to yourself and conceive that child sooner rather than later. For all our sakes.”

“Or what?” Layla hissed through her teeth, glaring at the old woman. 

“Or Master will punish you. Punish all of us, most likely.” 

She laughed, mockingly. “What can he do? I’m already a slave.” 

Bali’s eyes were resigned and pitying as they stared into Layla’s, and she felt her mocking die in her mouth, belly going cold. “Oh child,” Bali sighed, and she sounded very, very old. “You have no idea.” 

  
  
  


It was in the bath-house that Layla finally won the ‘genuine kindness or manipulative sociopath?’ game, and realized just how bad things could be. 

As usual- and she tried not to think too hard about how communal bathing had become both ‘usual’ and the highlight of her week in a month and a half- the three of them had split up when they entered. Bali had joined a group of older women, gossiping and clucking over kids, while Mask, as usual, scrubbed down efficiently and then went directly into the sauna. She wasn’t quite sure why he did, he had no reason to, but Mask took the quickest showers she had ever seen in her life. She almost wanted to time them, just to make sure they weren’t actually under 90 seconds like they seemed. Layla had quickly showered and then made a beeline for where she had spotted Blenda, lounging in one of the warm pools and chatting animatedly with her younger sister, Vina, and several other young female house slaves. It wasn’t quite the same as hanging out with her friends back home, but damn if it wasn’t at least a pleasant distraction. 

They had been sitting around, giggling and chatting, when the entire room went quiet in the wake of a shriek, ripping through the air. 

Startled, Layla looked, and saw a girl she didn’t recognize- a slender little Twi’lek thing, only maybe fifteen- wide eyed and struggling against the grip of a bulky, scarred Zygerian man that she also didn’t recognize. He seemed amused more than anything by her struggles, and he didn’t pause in dragging her closer, leering. 

Layla froze. She had seen plenty of intimate moments in the bath-house- bath-house trysts, Blenda called them- all kinds of variants and emotional moods, but every time all participants had been willing. Eager, even. But this... 

This was rape. 

Layla sized the Zygerian up, grimacing when she realized this was another gladiator like Mask. No way she could take him. Desperately, she looked around; but while everyone had gone still and quiet, obviously aware of what was happening, parents shielding their kids’ eyes or ears, not a single person was even looking at them, much less moving to assist. 

Scowling, Layla moved to stand and to hells with the consequences- she’d rather get beat up for her troubles than just sit here and watch, or worse,  _ ignore _ it- 

Blenda’s hand shot out, gripping her wrist and arresting her movement, and Layla’s eyes snapped to hers. Blenda shook her head minutely. “If he’s here,” she hissed, only barely audible over the lapping of the water, “then he’s favored by our Master. If you so much as touch him, and he complains to our Master, then it’s  _ you _ that will be punished. She has no such protection, and neither do you.” 

Layla gaped at her. She jerked her hand away and hissed back, “I’m not going to just  _ sit here _ -” 

“Yes, you are,” Blenda insisted, her grip not dislodged and in fact tightening with an almost desperate strength. The girl’s sobs and pleas were growing, echoing in Layla’s ears. “You can’t stop it, Layla-” 

“ _ I thought I told you-! _ ” 

The Zygerian’s snarling voice abruptly cut off, as did the girl’s sob. Slowly, not sure what she might see, Layla turned. 

Mask stood there, covered in a fine sheen of sweat and hand curled around the Zygerian’s bicep, nose to... well, mask. His stance was a balanced, coiled ready stance, his eyes hard and flinty over his mask, and he had pulled the Zygerian a half step away from her, into his own space instead. He looked wildly different from the Mask she had gotten used to; the quiet, thoughtful man who liked soft clothes, doted on his mother, and kept his hair in a bun, and she abruptly realized that she was looking at Strill, not Mask. 

The Zygerian was shocked, eyes wide. Layla felt her own eyes go just as wide. An anticipatory hush settled in the air. 

The hush was broken by Strill’s raspy, flat voice. “You finish that act, I will kill you myself.” 

The Zygerian blinked, then scoffed. “What? She’s my woman, and it’s just a bit of fun. Besides, don’t you already have your own woman, Strill-?” 

“She is not mine.” Strill cut him off ruthlessly, unblinking eyes never releasing the Zygerian’s. “But we’re all in this house together, have no one else but each other, and that makes us all brothers. Especially here. She said no; ignoring that is not treating her like your brother. The slave that raises his hand to or takes from another slave by his own will is no better than a slaver, and is a shame to his kind.” 

Layla blinked. He sounded almost like... he was preaching? 

Strill dragged the Zygerian off the girl entirely, shoving him in the direction of the doors. The crowd of slaves parted around him and reformed again behind him, forming a kind of shield between him and her; like a magnet moving through oppositely charged particles. One of the other younger girls darted forward, wrapping the shaking girl up in a hug, and Bali emerged from the woodwork too, frowning in concern and shushing her gently. Strill remained facing the Zygerian, coiled and dangerous, his eyes never leaving the Zygerian’s. 

Now, not a single eye was turned away from the Zygerian, and the mood had shifted from resignation to... judgement? No, disgusted disapproval. Layla didn’t hesitate to add her own to the mix. 

“Go,” Strill ordered, his voice like thunder. “And don’t come back until you have some manners.” 

The Zygerian looked around, eyes calculating, and took his leave. 

The second he was gone, Mask turned toward the girl, his eyes softening and shoulders curling in. “Kuur, vod’ika, kuur,” he murmured, voice a soothing rumble now as the girl burst into fresh sobs, and he reached out, but didn’t touch her. “May I?” 

The girl nodded, darting up to him and curling against his chest. He hugged her, petting her lekku and swaying slightly for a moment. When her shoulders stopped hitching, he pulled back, handing her off to Bali, who wrapped a motherly arm around her thin shoulders, the old woman murmuring something Layla couldn’t hear from where she was. 

Mask nodded, apparently satisfied, and turned to go back into the sauna. His eyes swept over the room, which was returning to its previous ambiance, meeting several other slaves’ grateful eyes. His eyes even met hers, unreadable as he held her gaze for a long moment, before disappearing back into the steam; Bali, with the girl still under her arm, not far behind. 

Layla slowly sat back down into the water, slowly processing. She turned to Blenda. “What was that?” she questioned bluntly. 

Blenda relaxed, something satisfied and relieved in her voice. “Mask is more favored than Alarin,” she explained simply with a little shrug. “And more skilled. He can keep that promise and they both know it.” 

Huh. Seemed it wasn’t as simple as Masters over the slaves; there was a hierarchy. Like a gang. Layla was familiar with gangs. Gladiators apparently outranked house slaves, and Mask sat at the top of the gladiators- or at least outranked Alarin- and anyone "favored" by Jundice was untouchable. Suddenly she realized that most of the slaves in here were in the same boat she was; that girl especially, since it seemed she had been placed with Alarin for the same reason she had been placed with Mask. Here, Mask could abuse and rape and terrorize if he wanted, and because he was both stronger and favored, no one would stop him. But he didn’t use his privilege to do that. Instead, he had defended and comforted a girl that he didn’t even know, threatened in complete seriousness to  _ kill  _ for her, and not only didn’t ask for anything in return, but asked permission to hug her. He had just announced, for every slave to hear, that everyone was under his protection- at least from rape by fellow slaves, at least while they were in the bath-house, and every single person here had seemed to believe him and rally behind him. When he had walked to the sauna, slaves had moved out of his way; but not in the repulsed way they had for the Zygerian, like he was a filthy, disgusting thing, or the cowed way they did for the slavers. They moved for him respectfully, like he was a celebrity. A king. 

Maybe that was why, when she woke up and found Mask sitting in the neighboring armchair in the middle of the night that night, she didn't scream. 

Mask wasn’t looking at her, she realized. He was staring out the window, like she did, legs curled up and face rested on his hand, and something about his eyes was... soft. Longing. He didn’t even glance at her, but she must have given some indication she was awake, because he spoke, nearly inaudible it was so quiet. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.” 

Awkwardly, she shrugged. “It’s ok.” Slowly, she sat up, glancing out the window, but everything was dark. “What are you looking at?” 

Mask hummed. “The stars.” 

“Oh.” She took in the position of his chair, noting that it was perfectly positioned so the person sitting in it had the window directly in front of them. He must do that often, she realized, and there in the dark, Mask suddenly seemed more human than he had before. “What’s your name?” she suddenly blurted. 

Mask blinked, startled gaze snapping to her. Layla felt her heart rate speed up, her hands clenching on the cushion under her, but she lifted her chin and refused to take the question back. 

He softened. “You may call me Mask.” His head tilted a tiny bit to the side, like a curious kid. “What’s yours?” 

She suddenly realized he had never actually called her by name. Hadn’t said much to her the whole time she had been here, actually, but he definitely hadn’t said her name. She wondered if he hadn’t even been told, or if it was just him extending the courtesy Blenda had made her aware of. “My name is Layla  Tikeri .” 

He nodded, and Layla could swear the corners of his eyes crinkled a little, like he was smiling under that unmoving mask. “Well met.” 

She shrugged. “You too.” Sweet Force, she hadn’t felt this awkward since she was in secondary school! All his words sounded weighty, like they were from a historical holodrama; hers sounded trite by comparison. 

He laughed, a soft snort of amusement more than anything else, and now she was sure he was smiling, crinkles showing where he would have laugh lines and crow’s feet when he got old. Layla scowled at him, lightly throwing a pillow at him, and he batted it away with a lightning-quick movement, but he didn’t stop smiling. 

It’s weirdly nice. A little slice of normal, being teased and watching the stars through a window, and for a minute, she forgets she’s a slave. 

  
  
  


Later, it occurs to her to wonder if he did it to feel normal, too. 


	5. Learning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Layla Tikeri, Taroa learned, was incapable of leaving a secret alone.

Taroa wasn’t sure what changed, but after nearly two months of alternately raging at and ignoring them, Layla began to warm. 

Her gaze turned more and more from the window to him and Bali instead, her dark oblong eyes glittering with inquisitive, sharp thoughts. She began to ask questions about Sleantah and how to be a slave; Bali took her to the table, made her tea- but not tzai- and taught her the ways of the Zygerian Depuran like she taught all, performing her duty as Grandmother. 

In the bath-house, Blenda and her sisters took Layla under their wings, showing her how to practice what Bali taught. She didn’t quite become one of them, her temper still too hot, her tongue still too bold, her trains of thought more freeborn than slave, but she observed, and she learned. 

And most surprising of all, he no longer watched the moon and stars alone. Before, she had flinched away from him, clearly anticipating the worst, and most of the time she still interacted with him carefully, but in the hushed, secret dark, she would stare out the window with him, and they would talk like equals. 

He had never heard anyone talk like her before, all casual, irreverent slang. She was from Coruscant, she said, and he had never quite imagined people from the Core spoke like that. When he said so, she snorted. 

“Only real people do,” she shrugged. “Politicians, slick businessmen, snooty top-floors- you know, fake people you can’t trust- are always trying to talk better than they are. Like they think they’re royalty or something.” 

Taroa had nodded; he understood that. Depuran were forever trying to glorify themselves in all ways, including how they spoke. 

She told him about her home; Coruscant’s packed underlevels, bustling with life in an eternal twilight, where there was always something going on yet nothing ever changed. She told him about her life before, where she had been a ‘party girl’, spending time with her friends at clubs and bars, drinking, dancing, flirting, and having fun, while her mother hounded her to train in the family business- “Mom said we were a business, but I knew we were into some shady shit. We were more gangsters than businesswomen.” 

Taroa didn't think he had ever been to Coruscant and told her so. She got a far-off look on her face, and then did her best to describe it. It sounded fantastical; a planet of city, an endless forest of buildings, where everything was dirty and times were always hard, but everyone was free. 

She told him about her family. “There were three of us,” she murmured, eyes distant and voice melancholy. “Me, my Mom, and my Uncle Tarrie. Uncle Tarrie was like me; always looking for fun, for a good time. Mom’s always saying he’s got a few screws missing upstairs. And Mom...” she trailed off, hesitating, like she wasn’t sure which words to use. Finally, she settled on, “She was amazing. She was never scared, and always knew what to do. We fought a lot, but when we weren’t fighting, she called me little bird.” 

Little bird. How fitting that this fierce, free woman, forever staring at the blue sky and coming up with tricks to escape the Depuran with, accidentally had a nickname that sounded like an epithet of Ekkereth.

She curled in on herself, hugging her legs to her chest. “They- my Mom and Uncle Tarrie- were always fighting too. But they stuck together. Took care of each other, and together, they took care of me.” 

This too, Taroa understood. Family cared for and protected each other, always. 

Eventually, she became comfortable enough to ask him about himself. What he liked and disliked, his thoughts and opinions on what Bali was teaching her. Almost shyly, like she wasn't sure if it was rude or not, she asked what it was like to be mind-wiped, and about his stolen past. 

She had shared her past with him, and she had asked, not demanded, so he shared what little he had with her. "It's like there's great scars in your mind," he tried to explain. "Or... craters in a moon. You know something was there, you can see where it was, but what it was you can only guess at. I have some guesses, though." Under his mask, he licked his lips nervously, training his gaze on the far off moon instead of her face. He had shared this only with Bali before, and to tell her his scraps felt... intimate. He whispered. "I have always been a slave. Or at least, long enough that it's just as true to say always. I must have trained as a gladiator from a young age, to be as skilled as I am, and I've always been good at it, judging from how few scars I bear from before. I... I think I might have been trained by Mandalorians." 

Layla startled in his peripheral. "Wait, really?" 

He nodded. "I speak Mando'a. It took me a while to identify it, and I'm not sure I could carry a conversation or read it since I've not had a chance to try. But I can speak it. And it would explain why I'm called Strill." 

She hummed. "Yeah, I guess it would." A beat of silence, and then: "Do you think you had a family?" 

Taroa hesitated. Abruptly, he stood. He saw Layla startle in his peripheral again, but didn't look at her. If he looked, if he tried to explain, he wasn’t sure he would be able to finish. So in silence he went to the hotplate, turning it on, and filled the kettle with water. He methodically prepared Bali’s tzai- his too, now, since he could no longer remember his first family’s recipe- then when it was ready, brought two mugs back to the couch and chair. Still not quite able to look her in the eye, he gave her one of the mugs, then curled up on his chair again. 

The mug warming his hands, the rich and spicy bouquet of it in his mouth, felt... right. Tzai was for sharing stories and secrets, at least between him and Bali. For family. To speak of his precious scraps without it was wrong. 

She must have assumed he wasn’t planning to answer, though, because she startled again when he did speak in a hushed murmur. “I think I had a big family.” His thumb rubbed against the lip of his mug, feeling the smooth edge. “I had to have had many siblings for vod to be such a familiar word to me.” 

“Vod?” she repeated, questioning lilt to her voice. 

“It’s Mando’a. It means sibling, or a friend so close as to have the same kind of love.” He took a drink, savoring the smoothness the milk gave it, then continued. “I know I had a father. I don’t know why it’s a father I remember and not a mother, but I know I did. I think I might have had a child.” 

“What?” she snapped, surprise making her harsh. 

“Is it really so improbable?” he shrugged. “Unlike a female, no sign is left on me if a child is sired. I get no stretch marks, no removal scars, no fullness to my chest or birthing hips. And I was a man long before I had my past stolen.” He smiled softly to himself, remembering the ending of the story of First. “I could have as many children as stars in the sky, and be none the wiser. If it is so, though, I have no memory at all of any mother.” 

There were implications in that fact, and none of them kind. He knew Layla could figure them out for herself; he had seen her fury when Pampy was attacked in the bath-house. She had been angry, yes, disgusted; but not surprised. She knew the bad ways children could be begotten. He hoped the implications were not accurate, but he could not know. 

He continued. “But the person I remember best is my elder brother.” He rubbed the rim of his mug again. “I had two elder siblings. I don’t remember much about one, but the other... I can remember his voice. Telling me story after story, every one ending the same way.” 

_I tell you this story to save your life, little brother. Will you remember?_

Reverently, Taroa pressed his fingertips to his chest, then the mouth of his mask, the motion half-hidden behind his drawn up knees. _I remember in my heart and with my lips, elder brother._

When he finally looked at Layla, her eyes were glittering with sympathy, but all she said was the drink was good. 

Layla Tikeri brought an energy to his cell that had never been there before. She brought bold questions and righteous rage. But most surprising and important of all, she brought songs. 

It turned out she had earned the nickname little bird for her tendency to whistle and sing. She wasn’t good at telling stories, the woman giving up after trying to tell him a holodrama she liked once, and she didn’t play any instrument, but she had a sweet, skilled voice, and knew many songs to use it for. The songs she knew did not have deep, hidden meanings like his stories did, but they were full of fantastic imagery and joy and hope. She also danced, little bouncing shimmies in time to some unheard beat. He could almost imagine the clubs she described, full of people and music, and her at the center, a wild beacon of freedom. 

Little by little, his own eyes turned away from the window when they sat together at night, and found her instead. 

His Depur asked, after another month went by with her failing to become pregnant, if they were spending their nights together. Taroa told him yes, they spent many nights together. He knew it was a dangerous game, just like Bali had said; but it was a game worth playing. Layla deserved the chance to make it a choice. 

For a time, things went on like that; but Layla Tikeri was too clever for her own good and too bold to leave a secret alone. It wasn’t long before Layla sat down at the table with him and Bali and demanded to know what they were hiding from her. 

“I’m not blind,” she sniffed. “Gangs, successful ones, are built on secrecy and live or die by the intelligence of their double-speak. I can tell when someone’s talking in code, and you two do it all the time.” 

Taroa exchanged a look with his mother. Bali sighed. “Come to the sauna when we go to the bath-house next,” Bali advised her. “You will learn then, like everyone else.” 

When she realized that was all the answer she would receive until the bath-house, Layla snarled and went to sulk in her window for the rest of the day. Taroa found it... strangely endearing. 

Still, when they went to the bath-house next, Layla followed him into the sauna. She sat on the women’s side, studiously keeping distance from him while bare, but her eyes were sharp and he knew she noticed when Bali entered and sat beside him, the sauna going respectfully quiet. 

Bali considered, then spoke, as soft as the steam. “There are as many stories of the Trickster as there are slaves in the galaxy,” she began, voice taking on a story-telling cadence. Every eye was riveted to her, even the youngest children in attendance silent. “Which is to say, more than you or I could count, and more every day. Listen, children, and Grandmother will tell you a story.” 

Bali told three stories, as she always did; today, the story of Maru, and how she helped Ekkereth steal the moons back from Depur, the story of Ebra and how Ar-Amu and Liea gave him the secret of tzai, and the story of Mitta, who endured and endured until finally she had enough- not for herself, but for others. Three stories, one for each of Tattooine’s moons. 

When she finished, he took his turn. He told two stories; one for each of Tattooine’s suns. Today, he told the story of First, the slave who fought his way free, and then a story of Akar Hinil, the pirate who freed others. 

Together, they told the story of Umar, the Believer, and the story of Tena, the first Prophet. Seven stories, seven lessons. After each story, they made the sign of remembrance, echoing solemnly, “We will remember, Grandmother.” Or, if he was doing the telling, “We will remember, ori’vod.” During each telling, he and Bali were both careful to recall they had among them one who was not yet trusted, though he hoped soon Layla would be, and carefully used only the epithets of the gods and Prophets, not their True Names, and no words of Amatakka. Just in case. 

Finally, each person came forward, and Bali drew on each of their palms with her fingertips the amarattu, murmuring, “Ar-Amu watch over you, child.” Then they came to him, and he drew the leia on their other palm, and blessed them with his own words, “K'oyacyi, vod.” 

Finished, they rose and went back into the main room of the bath-house, all three of them rinsing off the sweat with quick showers, and went back to his suite. Layla was quiet and thoughtful as they walked; she hadn’t spoken during the stories either, not even to ask questions like the little ones and newly inducted did. When they reached the suite, she still didn’t speak, instead going straight to her and Bali’s shared room. 

She waited until they were all dressed again and gathered around the table, then announced in a firm tone, “You’re planning a slave revolt. Aren’t you? That story with the Believer- that’s coded instructions for how to set up a spy network.” 

Taroa exchanged another look with Bali. Bali got up and began to make tzai. He waited patiently, Layla less so, until Bali was placing a mug in front of each of them, and Layla eyed her own mug with the look of someone who had just made a connection. Taroa smiled to himself; she truly was a brilliant woman. She just needed to be educated. 

“Tell me, child,” Bali answered her softly. “What did you learn today?” 

Layla considered, then reached out for the mug, taking a long sip of her tzai, before finally answering. “I learned that gangs aren’t the only ones good at keeping secrets.” 

Bali hummed approvingly. “And do you understand the price of these secrets we wish to share with you?” 

Layla’s lips thinned, thinking of the child beaten to death in the story of Umar, surely. She whispered. “I think I do.” 

Bali nodded. “Good. Then let your education begin with this: if you remember nothing else, always remember, the Depuran do nothing but lie and take, but what they do not know about they cannot take. Will you remember?” 

Taroa nodded, pressing his fingertips to his chest, then his mouth. Layla copied a beat after, murmuring hesitantly, “I’ll remember... Grandmother?” 

Thus, the education of Layla Tikeri began, and Taroa smiled under his mask. 

  
  


It was easier to teach in the privacy of his cell than the steam of the sauna, and Layla was a good student. She caught on to the stories quickly, the language even faster. Bali fogged a mirror with steam to draw in the moisture and teach her the sacred signs. She also taught Layla the slave-songs and the bakkru, building upon her existing habits of singing and dancing, and Layla took to those quicker still. 

She stopped sitting in the window, her eyes and attention turning away from the sky and to the inside of his cell. But she still sat with him in the dark, sharing tzai and stars and whispers between them. 

During the third month since her arrival, Taroa entrusted her with his True Name in the darkness. He has to explain the concept, but when he does, her eyes go wide and humbled, and he knows it is safe in her heart of hearts. 

He finds himself hoping she holds it there a long time. 


	6. Courtship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gradually, Layla came to terms with her reality.

Things settled between the three of them after they came to this new understanding, and for a while, things were alright. 

Well, as good as they could be. She was still cooped up in Taroa’s apartment, still a slave, and still largely bored. Bali and Taroa teaching her Sleantah and Amatakka- she wasn’t fluent in either yet, and had a newfound respect for Taroa, who was apparently fluent in at least four languages- and the associated stories and songs and stuff helped keep her busy, but due to their subject matter didn’t do a lot to distract her from the situation. Bali also was teaching her how to move fluidly, as part of the bakkru dancing, so she could silence the bells on her ankles if she ever needed to, but insisted Layla didn’t do it all the time so the fact she could do it remained a secret. It was a sensible precaution, which is why she did it, but had the side effect of making the bells’ jingling even more grating to her nerves, every step reminding her she was trapped. 

Layla wasn’t sure when exactly she accepted that she would be having babies with Taroa. But she knew she had when she realized she had started treating him like a potential boyfriend. 

She still kept him at arm's length in the bath-house, of course, that was just common sense, but to be fair she did that with all the men in the bath-house. She didn't explicitly avoid _him_ anymore, especially now that she was regularly attending the illicit sauna meetings. Not just attending them; after a few straight weeks of Bali and Taroa teaching her in private, she started helping to tell the stories. She didn't tell them as easily Bali did, or as skillfully as Taroa did, but she was getting better. They mostly wanted her to talk about Coruscant, anyway; or at least the ideal of it. She didn't get why, at first, but she eventually realized her descriptions of Coruscant were like Taroa's stories of the Star Warriors; less about teaching lessons or passing on coded information and more a reminder that there was a life after slavery. Especially for those that didn't remember anything but slavery. 

But outside the bath-house, they began to spend more and more time together. Sometimes in the context of teaching, but more and more often not. Most of the time they talked, and she was delighted to discover he had a dry, clever sense of humor hidden in those solemn words. He showed her his private datapadd, pre-loaded with a small library of books, including several collections of fairy tales from around the galaxy, several thriller novels, and some academic texts, shockingly enough. She had a feeling it would have been a more impressive reveal to someone that read for fun, though she still smiled and listened to him talk- nearly gush, really- about theoretical astrophysics. He, in turn, seemed fascinated with her descriptions of the most mundane things, school and shopping centers and holoserials- through she supposed they wouldn't be mundane to a slave. At night, he would sit in his chair and she would sit on her couch, they would drink tzai, and they would whisper about nothing and everything, teasing and giggling. 

It was only in the dark that she was brave enough to ask the question that had been weighing on her since that first day. 

"Why haven't you come on to me, Taroa?" she asked softly. "We both know it's going to happen. But you don't even suggest... Anything. You just keep lying to Depur. Why?" Recalling Kyzeron’s musings when she first laid eyes on Taroa, she added, "Are you not interested?" 

His brown eyes met hers, and for the first time, she saw heat in them, and felt a little quiver in the pit of her belly. 

“On the contrary,” he rumbled, his voice nearly a purr. Tension stretched for a long moment. Then he blinked, gaze skating back to his mug, and the moment broke, leaving her hiding a blush behind her own mug. 

He continued, his voice normal now instead of that purr. “No one deserves to have children forced on them, the child least of all. Children should be loved and wanted. And you deserve to have your body remain your own as much as possible.” 

Little kindnesses, Layla thought. Small comforts. 

She began to watch him more closely; this time with Bali’s advice in mind. _Do what you need to make it acceptable to you._ She decided to embrace approaching it like she was picking a new long-term boyfriend, pasting on a layer of normalcy to help make the whole situation feel less insane. She wasn’t sure if she should be horrified or grateful that it helped as much as it did. 

Taroa was... nice, she decided. He was considerate and kind and a great storyteller. He was deceptively smart, and easy to talk to. Affectionate and respectful with his mother, their love easy to see without either of them ever actually saying it as far as she knew. In the bath-house, he was respected, a community leader; not only telling stories, but dispensing advice to other members of the household and settling conflicts. He was easy on the eyes, too, despite his mask; broad and defined, all muscles accented with fine scars, and even though he was shorter than her, he seemed larger. Not in an intimidating way; the way she imagined fathers and masculine protectors were like. Really, on his own merits, there wasn’t anything objectionable about Taroa. 

There were two things that kept her from just stripping and walking into his bedroom. The first was practical; she had no idea if he had any experience, and wasn’t eager to find out through trial and error if he was bad in bed. He certainly seemed like the type to not have a lot of experience with women; too gruff, too aloof. Almost untouchable in a way.

When she was being honest with herself, though, she knew that was just an excuse to hesitate. The real problem was that Taroa, as Strill, killed. 

Layla was used to being exposed to people who killed, or claimed that they killed. People died all the time of ‘non-natural causes’ in the undercity, and for some people, having other people think you were a killer was good protection or upped your social standing. Her mom had probably been involved in at least a few people’s deaths, even if she had never actually pulled a trigger herself. But most of those people had one, maybe two bodies on their consciences, if they had actually done any killing at all. Layla had done the math, and if her math was right, Strill had a body count in the hundreds, all of them killed in cold blood, and growing every year. 

She had no idea how to reconcile that with gentle, kind Taroa. And it wasn’t like she could ask him to stop. She couldn’t even really talk to him about it, either; what was there to say? ‘Hey, you know you’re killing people?’ ‘Yep.’ ‘You know that’s wrong, right?’ ‘Yep.’ ‘Could you stop doing that?’ ‘Nope.’ ‘Cool, good talk.’ 

Four months after she arrived in Taroa’s apartment, the med droid started examining Taroa too. Bali tsked louder, anxiety lurking in her eyes. Layla wondered vaguely what Jundice might actually do if she didn’t turn up pregnant soon, but pushed the thoughts away. Taroa was doing what he could to give her as much leeway as possible in this, and she wasn’t going to throw it away on nebulous fears. 

As usual, it was the bath-house that provided the pivot. They had finished the meeting for that week and Layla was hanging out in one of the pools with Blenda and company after rinsing off the sweat- she had to admit, slavery did have one unexpected bonus; her skin had never been clearer. When she eventually escaped, she was going to have to join a spa club or something- when she noticed Taroa marching up to one of the house girls rinsing off, casual as you please. Layla recognized her; she was Raji, a Zygerian woman with grayish-brown fur that worked in the kitchens, and Bali and Taroa both counted her as Amavikka. The Zygerian woman jumped, startled, when he pressed his front against her back, wrapping his arms around her middle in an intimate embrace and burying his face in her neck. 

Layla felt her jaw drop. 

Taroa _never_ touched without asking first. No one, men or women, but especially women he always asked. And he had never shown sexual interest in anyone; bath-house trysts were not his style. So what the hells...? 

Her shock grew when after her initial startlement wore off, Raji giggled and leaned back against his chest, her pupils dilating and eyelids going half-mast, ears perking up. She seemed to say something, her lips moving, though whatever she was saying was lost in the ambient noise of the bath-house. 

“Staring,” Blenda sing-songed. Layla tore her gaze away, looking at her own clenched fist instead. Her gut twisted, the good mood of a moment before gone.

“Oh, my,” Halli, one of the housemaids, drawled with a slow grin. “Are you _jealous,_ Miss Tikeri?” 

“No!” she snapped. Yes, a little traitorous part of her heart whispered. The gathered women all giggled, exchanging knowing and wry looks. Layla glared. “What?” she demanded. 

“I guess now is a bad time to tell you Mask is well known for his trysts,” Blenda shrugged, her dark eyes glittering with amusement. “Or maybe exactly the right time.” 

Layla reeled. “ _What?_ ” 

Vina, of all people, nodded, the thirteen year saying matter of factly, “They say he’s real gentle. He visits with lots of different people, and lots of people go to him for their first time. I’m gonna when I’m older, if one of us isn’t sold on first.” 

Blenda nodded, reaching out to tuck a lock of Vina's dark blue hair behind her lilac ear. "In a few years.” 

Sweet Force, there was a lot to unpack there. Layla went for what seemed to be the easiest subject to tackle. "What do you mean, lots? I've been here-"

"Months," Blenda rolled her eyes. "Only months. Mask has been in this house for over four years, and been allowed to visit the bath-house for much of that.” She shrugged again. “Everyone visits in the bath-house.” 

Layla scowled, crossing her arms. “Good to know no one thought to mention my assigned baby daddy is the town speeder.” 

“That’s not fair,” Blenda snapped, frowning reproachfully. “And maybe you should actually speak with him about it before passing judgement, or getting into jealous snits.” 

Blenda was probably right, a small voice in the back of her mind murmured. It didn’t stop Layla from storming back to Taroa’s apartment without Taroa or Bali, still dripping, and spending the rest of the day sulking in the window, pretending she wasn’t thinking about Taroa and Raji. 

She calmed, eventually, but what she had seen and learned didn’t leave her mind. She supposed picking a first time like that- so _clinically-_ while it was staggering to her, it did make sense, from a slave’s point of view. Especially Vina’s. When your reality included the distinct possibility of getting raped without warning or recourse, even as a teenling- maybe especially as a teenling- it only made sense to try and mitigate that by picking your first time. Making at least that one experience a choice. Little kindnesses and small comforts, after all. And she couldn’t really hold Taroa having a past against him, she was hardly an innocent either. 

The fact that apparently not all of it was exactly _past..._ Well, Taroa had just as little choice in this as she did. She couldn’t hold that against him either. 

Well that was one of her concerns answered, at least. If Blenda was recommending Taroa to her younger sister as a good first time, and so many other girls agreeing, then Taroa couldn’t be too bad in bed. 

That only left his role as Strill. 

She waited until Taroa was called away again, leaving her and Bali alone. Like usual, a Zygerian guard showed up without any warning and barked without preamble, “Come on, No-Face. Lieutenant wants you.” Taroa’s face turned down, something about his posture going hard, but he nodded and followed without hesitation. Bali brushed her hand against his as he passed her, neither of them looking at each other. Once the door closed behind them, the lock engaging with a soft ‘snick’, Layla turned to where Bali was resuming rearranging the cabinets or whatever she was doing. 

“How can you do it?” she demanded. 

Bali paused, raising a silver eyebrow. “Do what?” 

“Take care of him,” she elaborated shortly. “How can you heal him, live with him, knowing what he does, and not judge him?” How can you _love_ him, she thought but didn’t say. 

Bali must have heard her anyway, because her eyebrow went down and something terribly old and sad crept into her eyes. She slowly set down what she was holding, then moved towards the window, crooking her finger for Layla to follow. Layla swallowed nervously, the memory of Ticknor flashing through her mind, but when Bali just waited patiently at the window, she went. 

“Look,” Bali murmured, looking down below. Layla looked. 

Down below, Strill marched into the arena, stripped to the waist. No armor this time. There was always something purposeful and confident to Taroa’s movements, but Layla couldn’t help but notice the traits were amplified in his walk when he was Strill. He looked like a General marching into battle, not eager but grimly determined to do his duty. Not for the first time, Layla wondered vaguely if Taroa hadn’t been a gladiator before he was wiped. 

A shaking, strapping young Twi’lek was shoved into the arena. Layla swore softly; despite his muscle, maybe a farmhand, the kid looked no more than fifteen, and was clearly terrified. Strill didn’t even seem to notice at all. 

Layla watched him swiftly, methodically take down the Twi’lek teenling, then three others after him. While he didn’t kill any of them, he certainly wasn’t gentle either. It was during the fourth match that Layla gritted out, “Why are you making me watch this?” 

“Tell me, child,” Bali hummed thoughtfully, “Do you punish a blaster for taking a life? Or the murderer?” 

Layla frowned. “The... murderer?” 

Bali nodded. “Yes. You cannot blame a tool for performing how the wielder wants it to. And that’s all a slave is, child. A tool. So tell me; is Strill to blame for those lives lost, that blood spilled? Or is our Master?” 

Layla bit her lip, considering that. “... that still doesn’t change the fact those people are dead.” 

“No, it doesn’t,” Bali agreed softly. “But my son punishes himself enough for his acts. He doesn’t need me, or you, to do it.” 

Layla thought of the late nights. She hadn’t realized it before, but now that she was thinking about it, Taroa most often sat up and looked at the stars after he was called away to fight. Was it more than stars that kept him up?

“Besides,” Bali gestured slightly down to the match below, “don’t you see the small kindnesses? He doesn’t draw the fights out, doesn’t do permanent damage. Doesn’t kill unless Depur orders it. He could do all of those things, in fact Depur would most likely prefer it, as he considers it more entertaining. But he doesn’t. When he can, he will allow a blow to connect, and take the loser’s punishment for himself.” 

She watched, noticing things she hadn’t before. Scars on his back that looked like they were from a whip. Techniques that had seemed merely efficient before now seemed... mercifully quick. The moment a gladiator went down, he stepped away, hands dropping. More than once, she noticed a flash of something almost grateful cross a gladiator’s face. She couldn’t always tell _why_ , but...

“Do you see them?” Bali pressed gently. 

“I see them,” she replied. 

  
  
  


That evening, when Taroa emerged from his room on silent feet, Layla had tzai waiting for him. She saw him pause from the corner of her eye, surprised, but he settled in his chair and took the mug with a soft, “Thank you.” 

She nodded, and waited for him to take a sip, before asking in a whisper, “Does it keep you up?” She gestured to the window, specifically the arena below, vaguely. “The fighting.” 

Taroa went unnaturally still. She waited patiently; he knew what she meant. Eventually, he nodded, but didn’t say anything. Layla supposed there wasn’t much to say. Or maybe too much, and he just didn’t know where to start. She bit her lip. 

“How can you live with that?” she demanded. Maybe a little harsher than she had meant, but she didn’t take it back. “How can you... you preach being kind to each other in the bath-house, threaten other gladiators that rape, but kill in the arena? It’s... it’s so hypocritical!” 

Taroa snorted softly, but his eyes were grim and distant. Haunted. Barely audible, he replied, “What I said to Alarin was, ‘the slave that raises his hand against another, by _his own will_ , is a shame to his kind.’” He shook his head slightly. “It’s not my will that I fight, or that I kill.” 

“Then why don’t you stop?” she snapped, anger rising. “Refuse?” 

His eyes refused to meet hers, trained on his mug, and this time his words were barely breathed. “... I did, once. It changed nothing.” 

Layla felt all her anger rush out of her, replaced with cold clarity. 

Taroa could do it, if he decided to. Just refuse to lift a finger, and probably be beaten to death for his troubles like the kid in the story of Umar, or worse. And it would stop _nothing._ Jundice would replace him, and the fights would continue. Who knew what would happen to Bali, or to her now, but whatever happened it likely wouldn’t be anywhere near as alright as this. 

So Taroa fought, and he killed. But he didn’t do anything he wasn’t explicitly ordered to do, and he wasn’t mean. He did what he could for his opponents, whether it was pull a punch or end a fight quickly. And he did what he could in the bath-house, planting seeds of rebellion in the form of stories and force-marching the other slaves into treating each other better, supporting each other. Giving them unity, and hope. 

It wasn’t much. But maybe... maybe it was enough. Maybe it _had_ to be enough. 

Maybe having the time to come to terms with her own orders had to be enough for her. 

Layla slumped back against the couch again, sighing. Only one thing left to talk about, it seemed. “What’s the story between you and Raji?” 

Taroa startled, his eyes going wide. “What?” 

“You and Raji,” she repeated, blushing a little. “I saw you two. In the bath-house.” She shrugged, trying for nonchalant and pretending she didn’t feel a little jilted. She had no reason, much less right, to feel like that, as Blenda had pointed out. “She’s pretty.” 

His eyebrows furrowed, confusion plain on what she could see of his face. “Well, yes, but-” he blinked, a thought seeming to occur to him. “You think she’s my lover?” 

Now it was Layla’s turn to frown in confusion. “Isn’t she? You certainly seemed more than friends.” 

His brow relaxed, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “No. No, we are not lovers. She actually has a wife.” 

“Wait, hold on,” she grumbled with a frown, setting down her mug and leaning forward confrontationally, “What was that I saw in the bath-house then?” 

“That,” he hummed, eyes glittering with amusement, “Was nothing more than a cloud of steam, hiding secrets.” 

“Basic!” she exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “Why do you never speak Basic?!” 

“It was an excuse to get close enough to talk privately,” he obligingly rephrased, bluntly. “We didn’t have sex.” 

She slumped back in her seat again, blush rising for a different reason. “...oh.” Hesitantly, she added, “And the... the girls that come to you for their first times? Are those faked too?” 

He raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say _every_ time was an excuse.” He shrugged. “It is an honor to be trusted with someone’s first time. Women, _and_ men.” 

Layla blinked, thrown for another loop. “You’re... you like both?” 

Taroa shrugged, movements casual but tone deadly serious. “Boys can have things taken too.” 

Layla shuddered, torn between horror and disgust and a teeny tiny little part of her that quietly agreed that yes, that made sense. 

Taroa tilted his head to the side, glittering eyes examining her like he was seeing her for the first time. He made a soft, huffed laugh. Not teasing; the laugh of someone discovering something unexpected. “You don’t share.” 

“My sexual partners? Definitely not.” She wrinkled her nose distastefully. “So if we’re going to do this thing, you’ve gotta stop doing that.” 

He hummed thoughtfully, gazing into his tzai. She let him think- it was the least she could do in return. 

Finally, he shifted forward, setting his mug down on the low table in front of him, beside her own. But he didn’t sit back; instead, he reached out to her over the table, fingertips pausing an inch before her knee. Layla felt her breath hitch. 

“May I?” he asked softly, glittering eyes boring into hers. Hesitantly, she nodded. 

His fingertips completed the motion, brushing against her knee, but instead of trailing up her thigh, they traveled down, along the line of her shin. He cupped his hand around her calf, gently lifting it. Confused, but willing to trust him, she let him lift her leg, Taroa turning his body so he was angled towards her, and then placing her foot on his lap. The bells softly tinkled, then settled. His other hand came up then, the both of them lightly stroking her slim calf, calluses rubbing against her skin, his eyes dropping to his hands. It felt almost... reverent, and weirdly intimate. “What are you doing?” she whispered. 

“I can’t promise I will stop entirely,” he whispered back, eyes still trained on her leg and hands not stopping their feather-light explorations. “Neither can you. Some secrets will still have to be hidden in steam, at the very least. And we cannot anticipate all of Depur’s commands. But.” His eyes flicked up, and now they were heated. Layla felt her belly twist and bit down on a gasp. “What we can promise is this. While other parts of you might be subject to Depuran whims, or I might have to touch another, I promise that _this_ touch,” he squeezed her shin gently, “will be for you, and you alone.” 

Layla bit her lip, considering that, heart racing in her ears. It was a reasonable compromise; legs, particularly the lower leg, weren’t something that a lot of people made a point of touching. Even during sex. Even if you were raping someone. It wouldn’t be out of place or hard to avoid either touching or being touched there, for him or her. It wasn’t much, but... maybe it could be theirs. Their own secret declaration that, in some small way, they were choosing this. 

Little kindnesses. Small comforts. 

So she smiled wryly, teasing, “Why, Taroa. Are you asking me to go steady?” 

Taroa’s eyes crinkled at the corners. He knew what she meant; she had explained dating to him when she told him about her favorite holoserials. The concept had seemed confusing to him then, but it clearly wasn’t confusing him now. “Maybe,” he teased back, voice a rumbling purr. 

Layla giggled, and on impulse, stood. Taroa blinked up at her, surprised but still heated. With a boldness she didn’t quite feel, Layla rounded the table and sat on his lap, slipping her arms around his shoulders, resting her cheek on the top of his head, and hooking her foot around his calf, as she resumed staring out the window at the full moon. 

Taroa went stiff for a second, and she had just enough time to wonder if she had made a mistake before he relaxed, his own arms wrapping around her and pulling her in snug, settling them more comfortably. His face turned into her neck, and she tried her best to ignore the feeling of the hard mask against her shoulder, focusing on his warmth instead. 

“May I?” he asked, a barely breathed whisper. 

Layla considered it, then took what comfort she could. “Not tonight,” she whispered back. She let a note of teasing back into her voice. “I never put out the first time a guy asks.” They both chuckled, then sobered. “Tomorrow,” she offered in compromise. 

Tomorrow the med droid would come again, scan them, and issue more drugs and instructions. This time she would take them instead of dumping them down the drain, and follow the instructions. 

Taroa nodded. She knew he understood; he always did. In another barely breathed whisper, he confessed, “I wish I could kiss you.” 

Layla blinked against the sudden blurriness in her vision. The moon stubbornly went fuzzy anyway. That... that hadn’t even been on her radar a second ago, but now... 

“I wish that too,” she whispered back. 


	7. Reminded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Layla tries to pretend nothing is wrong. Reality comes crashing in.

Layla let herself pretend her life was normal, and most days, she could almost believe it. 

It was like a holoserial. A family comedy. She was the spunky lead, having just moved in with her long term boyfriend, learning to live with him and his clucking, overbearing mother. He went to “work”, they went out to the bath-house together and hung out with friends, and slowly she and Bali were bonding over Bali and Taroa inducting her into the ‘family traditions’, like an Alderanni granny. She even started teaching Layla the hand-craft she would sit in her rocking chair and do; making something she called 'jerba ribbons', where she interwove and knotted dully dyed cords of different colors into long strips with geometric designs and protective sigils. Sometimes, she could almost hear the laugh track. 

And on the nights she left the couch and slipped into Taroa’s bed instead, she pretended she wasn’t doing it because the med droid had told her those were the days she was most fertile. And she wasn’t, most of the time, which made the pretending easier. She flirted with him, singing him dumb, overblown love songs, giggled when he flirted back, and they still sat up at night and watched the stars, whispering over tzai. Only now she would curl up on his lap, or he would join her on her couch, her legs draped over him and his hand stroking her calf. 

A month passed. The med droid came again. She startled when it handed her a little bottle with two more pills in it. 

“What?” she blurted, bewildered. “But... I’m not...?”

“You are 56 hours from the beginning of your next ovulation cycle,” the droid intoned flatly, like it always did, and for the first time Layla felt a twist of fear. 

After the droid left, she nervously asked Bali, “What happens if I don't get pregnant?” 

The old woman shrugged. “The Master’s will be done, one way or another,” she answered vaguely. Layla shuddered and swallowed down a bit of bile. 

The med-droid started coming weekly. In the bath-house, Blenda introduced her to some of the other slave mothers, some of whom were also ‘assigned’ to various gladiators with little bells on their ankles, who shared their advice for increasing her chances of conception. She hated discussing it so clinically, but it wasn’t like she had much choice, so she listened and followed what advice she could, spent every night in Taroa’s bed, and otherwise did her best to put it out of her mind. 

Like Bali had predicted, Jundice’s patience eventually ran out. 

At first, it was little punishments. He took Taroa’s datapadd away, and Bali’s cord and teas, including the tzai, and Layla’s furniture and clothes. Their food began to get simpler, with stingier portions. He barred them from the bath-house. 

Then he called Taroa to fight, but not like he ever had before. Layla didn’t think she would ever forget the guards bursting into Taroa’s bedroom in the early morning, wrenching them both from sleep and nearly dragging him from bed and away, leaving her and Bali terrified and confused, only for the guards to return that afternoon, dragging him back to his apartment carelessly and dumping him on the main room floor in a puddle of blood without a word. 

Then he did it two more days in a row. 

“Why?” she sobbed to Bali on the third day, barely able to look at Taroa unconscious in his ( _ their) _ bed, looking like the galaxy had chewed him up and spat him back out. “What will this  _ accomplish _ ?” 

Bali shook her head, patting her shoulder with a sigh. “Save your water, child,” she murmured. “No Depur tolerates defiance or failure in their slaves.” 

“We’re  _ trying, _ ” she snarled through her tears. 

“That doesn’t matter,” Bali snapped, more tired than harsh. “There is no want or need or try, child. There is only what  _ must be. _ ” 

“It’s only been-” 

“It’s been months, you stubborn child,” Bali sighed. “Nearly six months worth of chances, most of which you squandered on your stubbornness. Our Master has been far more patient than most would have. Most would have had you raped by all their gladiators by now, just to make a point.” 

Layla pressed her lips together and couldn't think of anything to say.   
  


The final blow was the most unexpected, and the most painful. 

It was only a week after Jundice’s punishment of Taroa when the guards arrived again. Wary, Layla drifted to stand by where Taroa was sitting in his chair and glared lightly at them, practically daring them to take him again. But this time they didn’t take Taroa. They didn’t even look at her and Taroa. 

Instead, the guard leading the pair ordered shortly, “Get up, old woman. Your new owner will be here soon.” 

Layla froze, her breath catching in her throat. “W-what?” she gasped. 

Bali didn’t even hesitate, though, like Taroa never did, carefully setting aside the jerba ribbon she was working on and standing from her rocking chair, readjusting her dress primly. Bali and Taroa shared a look, heavy and loaded, as she slowly walked towards the guards. 

Taroa bowed his head slightly, eyes never leaving hers. “K'oyacyi, Amu,” he whispered as she got close, only loud enough for Layla and Taroa to hear. 

Bali didn’t pause, but her hand reached out to him as she passed, and he grasped it, squeezing tightly enough that both of their knuckles turned white. Her eyes gleamed, but she didn’t cry, and she didn’t say anything. 

Then they both let go, and Bali marched right past them without a glance back. Taroa seemed to wilt, his head falling into his hands. He didn’t turn to watch her go. 

“ _ No! _ ” Layla screeched, lunging for Bali, only to have Taroa’s arms catch her around the waist, hold her back. She struggled, spitting and screeching, “No, you can’t do this, you can’t-!” 

“Don’t,” he whispered harshly against her shoulder, grip not slipping even a little. “Don’t-” 

“Listen to me for once, you stubborn girl!” Bali snapped, her voice like a whip-crack, though still she didn’t turn around. Layla felt her voice cut off. She remembered the last time a woman like Bali barked those words at her, and she hadn’t listened; she had ended up sold into slavery because of it. The guards watched on in amusement. 

“The Master’s will be done,” Bali stated, low and final. Layla choked on a sob. “Now save your water, and don’t look back.” For the first time, Bali hesitated, and added softer, “Have strength, my daughter. Take care of him.” 

And she was gone. 

“No,” she sobbed, sagging in Taroa’s arms, which now curled around her in a hug, tucking her face into his shoulder. They collapsed together into his chair, Layla sobbing loudly, and Taroa’s own silent tears dripping into her hair. “It’s not fair,” she sobbed. It wasn’t fair that they were being punished for this, that they lived at the whims of Jundice, that there was nothing they could do. 

Wasn’t fair she had to mourn her mother twice. 

“I know,” he murmured, voice rough. “None of it is.” 

  
  
  


When the med-droid came next, the following week, it issued her different pills; chewable tablets, a seven day supply. “You are currently five days pregnant. Take one of these every 24 hours to ensure the embryo receives the proper vitamins and nutrients. We will examine you once a week to ensure the healthy development of the embryo.” 

Layla nodded shallowly, her head bowed. Five days; Bali had been taken three days ago. 

It felt like a bitter irony. 

  
  
  


When they finally went back to the bath-house, their privileges restored- though with firm instructions from the med-droid that Layla had to limit her exposure to the hotter pools and the sauna, letting herself have only 20 minutes in one or the other but not both, and none when she advanced past the second trimester- Layla cringed away from the stares of the others, her eyes staring at the floor, shame crawling cold down her spine. 

Her actions had caused them to lose their Grandmother, and before that kept both their Grandmother and Ori’vod from them for weeks. And everyone knew it. 

She hesitated awkwardly in the entryway, like she had the first time, but this time it was Taroa, not Blenda, that put an arm around her and guided her to one of the showerheads. She showered quickly, eyes still downcast. When she was done, Taroa didn’t allow her a chance to hesitate again, instead guiding her next into the sauna. She followed along meekly. 

The sauna went quiet when they walked in, and she could feel the stares boring into her, judging.  _ Stubborn, _ she could almost hear them say.  _ Stubborn and stupid little girl. Figured out the way things were too late and caused us all to suffer. Just like Bali warned her.  _

Taroa sat on the bench, and she sat next to him. The silence stretched, uncertain and anticipatory. Still she didn’t look up. 

Finally, Taroa spoke, sure and steady. “When someone is sold on,” he began, “they die in all ways that matter, except one. They do not die in our hearts.” 

She looked up, startled. More than one of the others did the same. Taroa met each of their eyes, his own burning with conviction. 

“They may be dead, but we are alive. We remember, in our hearts and with our lips, and know when Ar-Amu calls us all together again, we will meet again.” He solemnly made the gesture of remembrance, chanting softly, “Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum, Grandmother Bali.” 

Everyone copied his movement with the same somber air, murmuring, “Grandmother Bali.” Layla covered her mouth, blinking away fresh tears. 

Taroa nodded. “We mourn. But life cannot stop for the loss of one.” He seemed to steel himself, shoulders and spine straightening. “So listen, children of Ar-Amu, and Grandfather will tell you a story.” 

Layla bit her lip, listening with tears streaking down her face as he told three stories, just like Bali used to do. When he finished, the silence rang out, jarring. 

His shoulder bumped hers, startling her into looking up. “Your turn, Ori’vod,” he whispered. 

Layla felt her breath hitch, and she hesitated. She... she didn’t deserve... 

But Taroa just kept looking at her, quiet confidence in his gaze, and as usual, no one dared to contradict him. He didn’t reach out to her, but his leg shifted, pressing their calves together. She swallowed thickly. 

There was no want, or need, or deserving. There was only what had to be. And Grandfather had to have an assistant to help tell the stories. 

“Listen, children,” she whispered, her wavering voice somehow echoing and muted at the same time. “Listen, and... and I will tell you a story.” For a long second, she hesitated, considering what story to tell; but there was really only one option. One story to properly honor Bali the Grandmother. Finally, she began, “Many years ago, there was a girl named Mitta...” 

She told the story of Mitta, the girl that grew into a woman and then an elder in Depur’s kitchens, enduring and enduring until she had enough. Not to free herself, but to free others, and even though she wasn’t free, others were because of her, and it was enough. When she finished, she pressed her fingertips to her heart, then to her lips, and for the first time, really understood the gesture. 

_ I will remember in my heart and with my lips, Mother.  _

She jumped when an arm slipped around her, looking up to see Blenda now sitting beside her, her dark eyes wet, shining with sorrow and sympathy. Layla hitched a sob, curling into her friend’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, not quite sure who she was apologizing to or what for, exactly. 

“Hush,” Blenda sighed. “Save your water. You have a community and a child to think of now.” 

She was right. Blenda, like Bali, was always right. So Layla took a deep breath and sat up, not bothering to wipe away her tears- they were hidden in her sweat anyway. She faced the rest of the Amavikka. They met her eyes searchingly. She hooked her foot around Taroa’s calf, and Blenda’s fingers entwined with hers, both of them squeezing. 

Her voice steady now, Layla began, “Listen, my brothers, and I will tell you a story.” 

  
  
  


Taroa took Bali’s place, and Layla took his, in the Amavikka meetings. He would tell three stories, she would tell two, and then together they would tell two more to make seven. She still wasn’t totally clear on why seven was such an important number, but she understood finding comfort and continuity in tradition and ritual. 

She understood a lot of things, now. 

She told stories with Taroa and taught songs and sigils and bakkru dancing, as much as she could in the snatched time in the bath-house. When others came to her for advice, she did her best to give it. When other slaves came to their apartment, delivering food or laundry, and shared gossip that she now realized was coded news about other parts of the house and reports from a network of Amavikka throughout the house with Taroa, Taroa stepping into Bali’s shoes and answering them in kind, from watching him she understood what it meant to lead. 

The other slave mothers rallied around her in the bath-house, sharing advice and commiserating stories about their own morning sickness and first pregnancies. "Slavery might make us all into brothers, but motherhood makes us into sisters,” they demured with simple shrugs when she shyly asked, and she was nearly brought to tears as she abruptly understood what it meant to be a part of a community, not just lead it. 

Blenda and company welcomed her back into their group, giggling and teasing her about her growing waistline and newly confirmed relationship with Taroa, like her friends back on Coruscant might have done. She blushed and scowled at their teasing, but didn’t protest. She knew they knew she appreciated the illusion of normalcy, and were happy to give her that. In turn, she made sure to regale everyone with endless tales of Coruscant and the other free planets in the Republic she had heard about, and made sure to sing the happiest, most hopeful songs she could think of.  _ He lives in you _ , she sang;  _ lean on me  _ and  _ we found love in a hopeless place  _ and  _ you can’t take me, I’m free.  _ Songs that had seemed trite and overblown before were given depth with new contexts. When she noticed from the corner of her eye Taroa being approached by the occasional pale-faced, trembling youth that he ushered into the sauna or quiet corners, she pretended not to notice, and she understood being kind. 

She watched, choking on tears and rage, as a runaway was whipped to death in the arena below their window. And she understood the price of failure. 

When little Vina disappeared, sold on, she held Blenda as she cried and led remembrance for her. She understood being strong, and lending that strength to others. 

In their apartment, she stopped sleeping on the couch and just slept in Taroa’s bed now. Sometimes they had sex, launguid and sweet. Sometimes he spooned against her back, forehead tucked up against her shoulder, his hands ghosting over her belly reverently. Sometimes she would lay on his bare chest, ear over his heart and legs tangled with his while he stroked her hair. And on days that he was called away to fight, she would patch him up when he came back, and if he couldn’t sleep after, they would find themselves on the couch, whispering over tzai and watching the stars together. There, his eyes glittering and hand curled around her calf, he whispered for the first time, “ _ You _ are my freedom, Layla Tikeri.” 

She realized she understood exactly what he meant, and slowly she understood love. 


	8. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tikeri family grows three sizes that day.
> 
> (Warning: this is the chapter with the brief mercy killing talk.)

She thought a lot about her Mom in the months she’s pregnant. Both her mothers. About what they had tried to teach her, and the fascinating amount of compatibility in their lessons. 

Her mother, Luna Tikeri, had been a gangster. A Boss of the undercity. Poised, sharp, and cold. Bali had been the Grandmother of the slave quarters. Humble, hard, and warm. In their own ways, both were ruthless, and both were fearless, and both were leaders. 

She would be smart to follow both their examples. 

She continued to practice the bakkru, strengthened her knowledge of the secrets in discussions with Taroa. Practiced making jerba ribbons. She couldn’t quite bring herself to finish the half-finished ribbon Bali had been in the middle of when she was taken, though. That one she just... quietly hid away. Only she and Taroa knew where it was, and she liked it that way. 

When she was sent clothing again, she began to dress like her mother once had. Traditional, elegant, distracting; all wide billowing sleeves, draping cuts, flowing skirts, and plunging necklines, adjusted to expose her collarbones and shoulders and sternum and thigh. Making statements with her clothes, and her hair. Her mom had always said take good care of your hair, and wear elaborate hairstyles and makeup; it shows you’re meticulous and patient and confident. She didn’t have makeup, Zygerians didn’t use it, but she wore her hair as elaborately as she could. When she whispered suggestions to Taroa for plans to spirit ‘packages’ out the doors with the Depuran none the wiser, it was her Mom’s strategies she whispered, tempered with Bali’s wisdom. 

Some nights, when she sat in the dark with Taroa and they gazed at the stars together, she mused wryly that in the end, she had fulfilled both her mothers’ wishes and dreams for her, and being a Grandmother wasn't so different from being a Boss. 

  
  
  


When she was six months along, the med-droid performed her usual check-up, and clinically announced at the end of the usual statistics and test results, “The fetus is a male.” 

Layla didn’t hear anything after that. Barely noticed the med-droid leave, actually. She stared into the distance, not seeing anything, her hand on the firm mound of her belly. 

Her _son._

He would look just like Taroa, she was sure. He would be broad and strong and clever and kind. This squirming little creature in her, he was going to be a _person,_ and he was abruptly more real than he had ever been. Already she could feel herself choking on maternal worry and drowning in love. And... 

And he would be a gladiator, just like his father. 

She knew, now, how gladiators were picked and trained, from Taroa and the other gladiators she talked to in the bath-house. Depur and their enforcers would watch the slave children, and if they saw one that exhibited traits that might make a good gladiator and wasn’t more useful somewhere else, they would be sold to a training school, where they would either learn or die. When they were trained, they would be sold on the open market to arenas or private owners like Jundice- or Kyzeron. She hadn't forgotten that sleemo's promise to claim her first son. As the son of one of the most successful gladiators of his generation, as a child specifically _bred_ for it, Taroa’s son was destined for the arena. 

Typically, they were sold to gladiator training schools at fourteen. 

Taroa sat beside her on the couch, startling her from her thoughts. His brown eyes were solemn, and she could tell he knew where her thoughts had gone. 

“It's a boy,” she breathed. 

“It’s a boy,” he agreed. 

“Taroa,” she gasped, breath hitching, “We- we can’t-” _We can’t let them take him._

His hand gently landed on hers, cradling their son. Protective. Loving. 

So when he looked her in the eye and spoke, soft and earnest and almost _kind,_ Layla felt something in her shatter. 

“He could taste dukkra instead.” 

Layla reeled back from him, shoving him away and standing at the same time. She wrapped her arms around her middle, protecting her baby, and took several steps back, away from her son’s father. “ _No_ ,” she hissed, appalled and pissed that he would even... even _think_ about... 

Taroa didn’t try to get up and follow her or argue, just nodded in acceptance. “Then the Master’s will be done.” 

Layla froze again, choking on despair now, because damn it all, Taroa was right. 

Slowly, she turned her back on Taroa, and sat in the window, staring out at the distant trees, her mind racing with calculations and strategies and wisdom. Taroa knew better by now than to try to talk to her or touch her, and left her alone. 

When the moon rose, she went to their bed, and sat beside where he lay, cautiously watching her. Carefully, she leaned over him until their foreheads touched, forcing their eyes to meet. For a long moment, they simply watched each other. His hand hesitantly came up to tangle in her loose hair, and when she didn’t shake him off, more confidently cup the back of her neck, pressing them together a little more firmly. Normally, this would be the point she hooked her foot on his calf, but this time she didn’t. 

“We have to make sure he gets out,” she whispered fiercely instead. “Even if- if _we_ don’t, he has to. Maybe not tomorrow, or the day after, but before he’s fourteen.” 

“Yes,” Taroa agreed. Simple. Absolute. The sky was blue, two plus two equals four, and their son would be free. She relaxed, releasing a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. “And in the meantime, we will tell him stories and sing him songs and love him, and if we can’t go with him, he will carry us with him in his heart and on his lips.” 

“Ok,” she agreed in a sigh. It would have to be enough. Voice hardening, leaving absolutely no room for argument, she added, “ _Never_ suggest that again.” 

He didn’t flinch, but something in his eyes went almost sheepish. “I won’t.” 

Shallowly, she nodded. Carefully, she moved to lay down with him, her head pillowed on his chest, and hooked her foot around his calf, his hand resuming playing with her hair. 

For a while, they lay there in the quiet dark. Then, softly, he began to hum. 

“What’s that song?” she asked after a few minutes of listening. “I don’t recognize it.” 

He stopped, then whispered, “I don’t know the name or the words anymore.” 

Anymore. It was something from his _before_ , just like she had, only worse _._ At least she could remember hers. She buried her face in his chest, and prayed her son would never have a before. 

  
  
  


When she was seven months along, she realized she was having trouble doing things for herself. Standing up was a struggle, she was constantly lethargic and ill, and the topmost shelves were now out of her reach with her belly in the way. One of these days, she thought, she was going to get stuck on her back like a Naboo turtle-duck while Taroa was in the arena, and she would be stuck there until he came back. 

She complained about this to Taroa, who got a thoughtful look on his face. A week later, Layla startled when Blenda walked in, escorted by a single guard that left immediately, leaving her there with a bag in hand. 

"Blenda?" she exclaimed, clasping her hand and pressing a kiss to her violet cheek absently when the other woman bent with a smile to kiss hers in greeting. "Not that I'm not happy to see you, but what are you doing here?" 

"Didn't you hear?" Blenda laughed, her eyes glittering with more joy and mischief than they had shown since Vina was sold. "I'm your new nurse." 

"My...?" She trailed off, then turned a raised eyebrow on Taroa, whose eyes just crinkled at the corners. 

"Mother forbid you get stuck on your back while I'm away," he hummed, eyes glittering. "Besides, I thought you might like some... company. Like you were for Bali." 

She and Blenda both blinked, dissecting that, then Blenda barked a laugh. “He’s so clever,” she chuckled. 

“He really, really is,” Layla agreed with a grin. She picked her jerba ribbon back up. “Wanna learn?” 

  
  
  


Blenda moved into the room that had once been Bali’s, and claimed Bali’s abandoned rocking chair, and Layla forced herself to remember there was no way Blenda could realize the significance of the rocking chair remaining empty. And even if she _could..._ well. Like Taroa had said, life had to go on. 

Blenda also took Layla's old place at the sauna meetings, helping to tell stories and demonstrate bakkru dancing and pass messages in steam like Taroa did. In their apartment, when she felt like she could move, Layla taught her more bakkru moves, and when she didn’t, she taught Blenda jerba ribbon making. Blenda taught her more healing and helped her with her Sleantah in return. Blenda was still called away to perform her duties as a Singer fairly often, about as often as Taroa was called to fight, and Layla started sending jerba ribbon bracelets with her. Where they ended up, she was never quite sure, but then it was probably safer that way; the same way it was safer that she didn’t know what gossip Taroa would murmur to Blenda before she left. 

Layla had never had a sister before. Even her closest friends back on Coruscant hadn’t been as close as Blenda. With Vina still such a recent loss, she was sure it would be insensitive to try and claim that kind of relationship, but she found herself wanting to use the word anyway. 

Blenda smiled sadly when Layla shyly brought it up, and murmured, “Alcerín. That’s the word you’re looking for. It means a sister you don’t share blood with in Sleantah.” She didn’t provide the word for a blood sister, and Layla knew better than to press. 

So instead she grinned and said brightly, “Help me up, Alcerín. Let’s make it official.” Blenda shot her a confused look, but obligingly helped her stand, and Layla took her into the kitchen and showed her how to make tzai, like Bali had shown her. Like they were in one of Taroa's stories. Blenda’s smile wasn’t so sad after that. 

The exchange got her thinking, though. Small comforts and little kindnesses. 

So that night, when she curled up with Taroa in their bed, she announced firmly, “I want to have at least one more after this one.” 

Taroa startled, brown eyes blinking rapidly. “Another... another child?” he clarified, sounding bewildered. “But... you’re not done with this one yet.” 

She groaned, rolling her eyes and rubbing awkwardly at her sore lower back. His hand drifted down from her hair, strong fingers kneading soothingly, and she hummed appreciatively. “Don’t remind me. No, I just... I want this kid to know what having brothers and sisters is like. I never had any growing up, and having Blenda here has... made me think. Maybe I was missing out.” 

His eyes went thoughtful and knowing, and she could tell he was thinking of the other reason. That Jundice would likely order them to have another. But if they had already decided, on their own, that they wanted another... 

It wasn’t much. But it was a small comfort. 

Taroa nodded, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Let’s have another, then.” Suddenly, his eyebrow quirked and his gaze went almost impish. "You know, you basically just proposed, according to the Mando'ade." 

"Maybe I meant to," she shot back without quite thinking about it, and they both went awkwardly quiet, staring at each other with wide eyes. She couldn't quite bring herself to take it back, though. 

Marriage. Marriage, like babies and slavery, was one of those things she hadn't ever really thought about seriously, not even when she was sixteen and thought she was in love with Yony Rider. Marriage and families tied you down, meant you couldn't have fun anymore, and meant giving her Mom some kind of victory. She had recoiled from the idea then. But now... well. 

Now, over a year after she had been sold into slavery, everything had changed. She had chains on her ankles, was a Grandma before she had even given birth (and _somehow_ that made sense), and had a man who slept around more than a 2 credit hooker but still looked at her like she hung the stars in the sky, and somehow that made all the difference. He called her his freedom, and she knew what he meant. 

Slowly, she nodded, settling into the idea with a smile. It felt... right. Natural. A kid's parents were supposed to be married, anyway.

"Yeah," she finally said, softly but firmly. "Yeah, I did."

The near panic drained away from his face as he visibly adjusted to the idea too. Apparently Taroa hadn't ever thought about marriage either, but eventually, his eyes crinkled a little at the corners. 

"I accept," he murmured back, just as soft and just as firm. "Just let me carve a snippet first." 

Layla nodded and settled back down. She could wait. 

  
  
  


When she gives birth, it’s nothing like she idly imagined when she was a kid, when she had even deigned to think about that sort of thing at all. There was no medcenter, no doctor, no Mom or Uncle Tarrie. She did so in her and Taroa’s bed, reclined against Taroa’s solid chest and gripping his hands, attended by her sister and the med-droid. Neither Blenda nor the med-droid had pain relievers to give her, but Taroa held her hands tight and sang softly into her ear as she screamed, and it helped a little. 

When finally everything just _stopped,_ leaving her numb except for a throbbing ache in throughout her pelvis and feeling weirdly bereft, the wail of a baby splitting the air, she nearly passed out then and there. But she forced herself to stay awake, forced herself to see her baby and know he was alright. 

She watched blearily, half-aware of Taroa murmuring something she couldn’t quite make out or comprehend in some endless reverent chant against her shoulder, as Blenda rinsed the squirming, tiny figure off in a shallow basin, grinning and cooing, the med-droid hovering and running scans. When the droid proclaimed flatly that the infant is healthy, and Blenda concurred with a chuckled “At least his lungs are,” Layla exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding and allowed herself to slip under. 

  
  
  


Layla Tikeri sat on her couch, still exhausted but beaming down at her son.

Dukkra Tikeri. 

To be honest, she had been torn between wanting to deck Taroa for the suggestion and wanting to kiss him for it. It was just so _Taroa_ to make their son’s name into a quiet rebellion. One way or another, their son would be free. 

And if they failed, if he ended up in the arena anyway, then he would embody his namesake for the people of his new house, like his father before him. But she didn't quite allow herself to acknowledge that.

She studied his face in the warm morning sunlight. It was small and round and scrunched, with a little button of a nose and the wispy suggestion of black hair. She couldn't quite tell which of them he more resembled yet, but it didn't really matter. Layla supposed she had seen a thousand babies just like him, but somehow, she was certain he was cuter than all of them combined. 

A body settled next to her on the couch, an arm slipping around her shoulders, and she beamed at Taroa. His eyes were crinkled at the corners, deeper than she had ever seen them before, awed wonder lighting up his eyes. His hand, large and protective, settled on Dukkra's belly, while the other squeezed her shoulder. 

His eyes met hers, and he tipped their brows together. "Thank you," he breathed. She didn't have to ask what for; she was grateful too. 

The moment was shattered when the door swished open, both she and Taroa looking up, and both of them freezing in shock when they saw who had invaded their apartment. 

Jundice smirked, standing in their main room like he always just popped over unannounced and it hadn’t been over a year since Layla had seen him last. The room itself seemed to warp around him, like he was a horrible anomaly and the very fabric of the universe was trying to reject him. A boogeyman. _Depur._ Layla fought the sudden urge to hiss and spit in his direction, or run to her and Taroa’s bedroom and hide Dukkra. 

“Well, well, well,” Jundice sneered. “I hear congratulations are in order.” 

Taroa nodded cautiously, his shoulders tight and eyes dropping to Jundice’s boots. Layla bit her tongue and followed his example. “Yes, Master.” 

“Well don’t be shy!” he exclaimed, mock jovial. Like he and Taroa were _friends_ , and this was just a friendly social call and not the power trip it was. “Show me the child.” 

Layla felt her arms clench around Dukkra, and she met Taroa’s eyes, her heart stuttering. She wanted nothing more right now than for Taroa to bark at Jundice like he barked at misbehaving gladiators in the bath-house, throw him out with the threat of grievous bodily harm if he ever dared to come back. She would settle for Dukkra not going anywhere near the sleemo. 

Taroa’s eyes were sympathetic, and regretful. Just barely audible, he whispered in Mando’a, “ _Ni ceta_.” 

He lifted Dukkra carefully from her arms, and she choked on a sob, forcing herself not to snatch him back, staring out the window at the distant treeline instead. For the first time, it felt mocking. 

She didn’t watch, but she listened. She heard Taroa stand and move around the couch, then softly announce, “Duke Tikeri, Master.” 

Jundice hummed, sounding like he was less than impressed. “Just Duke should be fine, I think.” 

Layla bit her tongue hard enough that she tasted blood, her hands clenching into fists on her lap. They had argued a bit over that; giving him a Basic-ized name to use as a front, instead of his real name, like Taroa used Mask with everyone that wasn’t Amavikka. Taroa had insisted it was necessary, as a precaution. That what Depur doesn’t know they can’t take. She had scoffed that there was no point making such a statement with his name if they weren’t even going to say it to the sleemo’s face. And with him not knowing Amattaka, unable to recognize the defiance, there was no point to Jundice taking away his _name._

But he had just denied them giving Dukkra her name. Forbidden them to use it. If there was ever any record of his birth at all, her family name would not be connected with him, and if they were caught using Tikeri for him, it was probable they would be punished. If he had known Dukkra’s whole True Name... Mentally, she admitted defeat to Taroa and added another entry to her running log of injustices. 

“Duke,” Taroa repeated, sounding defeated, and she wanted to scream. 

“He certainly looks like his father,” Jundice chuckled, oily. “I expect much of you, Duke. And your brothers to follow.” 

“Yes, Master,” Taroa murmured on Dukkra’s behalf. 

And then thankfully, mercifully, the door swished and he was gone. 

The invaded feeling, the _violated_ feeling, remained though. Layla wanted to burn the floor he had walked on, disinfect the door, call in an exorcist to cleanse their home of the unclean feeling. She settled for snatching Dukkra back when Taroa brought him to her, checking him over feverishly like Jundice’s mere proximity might have infected him somehow. Dukkra, thank the stars and the Mother, had slept right through the whole thing and was oblivious to her distress. 

She looked up at Taroa, who still was standing there, watching them instead of sitting again, like he didn’t feel he had the right, like he didn’t think he’d be welcome; some kind of aching pain and guilt written all over eyes that had been nearly ecstatic only ten minutes before. 

It wasn’t fair, she thought with a surge of white-hot fury. Not fair that Jundice got to just waltz in here and hurt them all like this, steal their happy moment. Rip her son from her arms for even a moment, rub it in Taroa’s nose that he was powerless to protect his son, reduce their son down to a _thing_ that he got to name to his whims. Not fair he then got to just traipse away without even a lick of punishment for any of it.

It wasn’t fair, and she wasn’t going to let him just have it. Not to-fekking-day. 

Stubborn set to her shoulders, eyes full of angry tears, Layla declared, “Marry me.” 

Taroa startled, brown eyes going wide. “... now?” 

“Right now,” she nodded firmly. “Blenda won’t be back for a few hours yet, we still have the apartment to ourselves. When she gets back, she’ll be the first one we tell, and years and years from now, that’s what I’ll remember about today. Naming Dukkra, marrying you, and celebrating both those things with my sister.” 

Taroa’s eyes went somehow wider as she spoke (ranted, really), until finally, they went soft and adoring. The pain still lurked at the corners of his eyes, but it wasn’t his focus anymore, and Layla felt a vicious stab of satisfaction at accomplishing even that much. 

He nodded, just as firm, though his voice sounded kind of dazed. “Yes. Yes. Let- let me just-” he darted, making for their bedroom. 

Guessing what he was doing, she shouted after him, “Grab the bag from under our mattress while you’re at it!” 

Dukkra began to fuss at her shout, and she turned her attention to him, cooing and shushing. When Taroa came back, she had him nursing, and she huffed a wry laugh. Not that she had ever imagined her wedding before she became a slave, save some half-formed disgusted thoughts about what her Mom would surely want and try to bully her into, but if she had, Layla was certain she wouldn’t have imagined a secret slave wedding while nursing her newborn son. And she _definitely_ wouldn’t have imagined her groom being like Taroa. 

As Taroa sat beside her, though, a few things cradled in his hands that he spread on the low table in front of them like Blenda laid out her tools, and turned his bright, almost shy eyes on her, asking softly, “Is this what you wanted?” Layla smiled. 

“Yes,” she replied, and meant more than the bag. 

Carefully, reverently, he opened the little cloth bag, pulling out the contents; two coiled jerba cord ribbons, one finished, the other half-finished. He set the finished one aside for the moment, contemplating and caressing the half-finished one instead, wrapping it around his fingers, then pressed it to his heart, his mouth, and finally, his forehead. He passed it to her, and she did the same. It wasn’t quite the same as actually having Bali there, but it would have to be enough. 

Blessings asked for (and hopefully received), she tucked the ribbon back into its bag and set it aside to be returned to its hiding place later, only having to juggle Dukkra a little. Her son barely even seemed to notice. 

Taroa reached for the second ribbon next. This one he also carefully caressed, but exploratively rather than contemplatively. This was, she knew, the first time he was laying eyes on it. Layla preened; she was rather proud of it. It had taken her a week to decide on the design, and had been a pain to work on in secret, but if it hadn’t been in secret it wouldn’t have meant as much, just like his snippet that she knew he had to be carving but she hadn’t seen even a trace of. It was long, long enough to wrap comfortably three times around both of their wrists. Fourteen rows wide. She had waffled for a bit on the colors, but eventually went for her gut instinct; black, the darkest shade she had (freedom and secrets) with the Leia and the Broken Fetter symbols (strength and fury and defiance) picked out in dusty red (endurance) in an alternating pattern down the length, and at the center, in the boldest shades of blue (celebration and weddings) and green (growth and family) she had, the Double Infinity (eternity). 

His eyes went misty, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he turned to face her, holding out his hand. She took it, squeezing, then slid her hand up to grasp right above his wrist instead, his own fingers curling around her forearm in turn. Carefully, he wrapped the ribbon around their wrists, three times; and together, one hand each, they tied it in a simple knot. Dukkra had detached by this point, and she would need to burp him in a minute, but for now she gently set him down on her lap to free her other hand for the job. 

Softly but with conviction like bedrock, Taroa said, “Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde.” Layla didn’t know enough Mando’a to understand the words, but she supposed it didn’t matter. She could hear what he meant, see it in his eyes as they held each other’s gaze. “You are my freedom, Layla Tikeri. Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum. Forever.” 

Her eyes watered, and this time she didn’t try to stop them. Water was sacred, after all, and if anything deserved to be blessed with her tears it was this. “Forever,” she agreed in the same hushed, conviction laced tone. “Taroa, you see those trees?” 

He didn’t look, but he didn’t have to. He nodded, never breaking her gaze. 

“Well someday I’m going to walk through them,” she declared. Simple and absolute. The sky was blue, two plus two equals four, their son would be free, and someday she would walk through the trees. “And when that day comes, I want you to walk with me.” 

She had often thought that Taroa’s words sounded weighty, like they were from a historical epic, or one of his Ekkereth stories, and her own words fell flat in comparison no matter how hard she tried. But for the first time, she felt the same weight to her own words. Taroa must have too, because his eyes watered and his head bowed, tipping their foreheads together. “Yes,” he agreed. 

For a long moment, they just rested there, only breaking apart when Dukkra gave a whining cry, both of them huffing wry laughs. They didn’t bother to wipe away their tears. Taroa unwound the ribbon from their wrists, and after a moment of consideration, lifted his pant leg and wrapped it around his ankle. When he sat up, readjusting his pants to sit right again, it was completely hidden, but they both knew it was there, and that was enough. He reached for a little bundle of cloth he had also set on the table, opening it carefully, and offering it to her. Layla’s heart picked up; it must be the snippet. Considering there were no japor bushes on Zygeria, and therefore no japor wood, she had no idea what the snippet would actually look like, and was very curious. 

It was a little square tab with rounded corners, a little bigger than her thumbnail, made of creamy white (righteous fury and death) stone. On the front was carefully carved the Amarattu, carefully colored in with... something black, she wasn’t sure what he had used, but it was jet black and stark. On the other side, he had carved the Double Infinity, surrounded by the Broken Fetter, both also colored in with black. On both ends was drilled out a little hole. “For mounting it on something,” he explained. “I was still looking for something to mount it on.” 

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed. Carefully, she took it, and exchanged him Dukkra for it. He cradled their son to his chest, something in his eyes satisfied as she ran her fingertips over the delicate carvings, admiring and memorizing it. After a moment of thought, she grabbed her box of cords and picked out a thin, dark brown (promise of freedom) spool and cut two lengths of it, using them to make it into a bracelet that she put on her left wrist, snug against her skin, carefully positioning it so the snippet was on the inside of her wrist, infinity side down. Hidden. When it was on, her loose sleeve fell past her hand, hiding it further. 

Taroa’s eyes were crinkled again when she turned to him, and he stood. “One more thing,” he announced, and went to the kitchen. Bemused, Layla carefully followed, only hobbling a little. 

Expertly juggling Dukkra without a thought (and suddenly she was thinking of a hushed whisper in the dark, confessing, _I think I might have had a child_ ) Taroa gathered up the ingredients for tzai. Milk, the canister of tea, the canister of spices. Always kept separate, never pre-mixed, just in case. “You bring the water,” he instructed her. “And... then you need to add an ingredient.” His eyes met hers again. “Make it _ours._ ” 

_Oh._ “Big responsibility,” she muttered, making him snort. She considered what they had in the cabinets while the water heated, and when the water boiled, they made a pot together. Water, tea, spices; then the milk, added slow so it didn’t curdle and also brought the overall temperature down to a palatable temperature; and finally, she added a fair amount of honey. Honey, to temper the spices; honey, sweet as freedom and love, and never went bad. 

They curled up together on the couch, Dukkra laying on Taroa’s chest, sipping at their tzai in content silence, and Layla nearly forgot Jundice had even been there. 


	9. Dreamweaver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ghost reveals the strength of dreams.

In honesty, Layla didn’t understand why Taroa placed such weight on the stories until Dukkra was six months old and she had been a slave for almost two years. 

She recognized their unifying and hope-giving qualities, sure, as well as their usefulness as a basis for a cipher even in Basic, and those things were important, but they seemed... weak, when you took into account the mind-wipes that were standard when house slaves changed households. Sure, the stories helped you cope _now,_ but she didn’t really see much long-term value in them outside the context of a single house, much less in teaching them so adamantly. But Taroa took so much pride in being the Storyteller that she couldn’t bring herself to question him too hard about it. 

Master Jundice was hosting some kind of family get-together for himself and his in-laws that week, so there were several new faces in the bath-house when they visited that day- as well as some familiar faces. 

Layla’s stomach twisted when she saw Vina there, but Vina’s eyes skated right over her, unrecognizing. Blenda was also there, and she was practically beside herself in that silent way slaves grieve as she watched her little sister bathe. The others that also knew her snuck glances, looking at her like she was a ghost that might vanish if they looked too long. According to the slave wisdom, she was a ghost. 

Layla had wondered where Vina had been sold on to. Knowing would have been bittersweet, but witnessing the aftermath of a mind-wipe is just bitter. She can’t even imagine how awful it must be for her sister and those that loved her to have her blue eyes skate over them like that. The term past-stealers suddenly seemed terribly accurate, and terribly cruel.

But Taroa didn’t even seem sad. He showered, then marched right up to the pool Vina was in, sat down in the water, and without hesitation, pulled the girl onto his lap. Vina froze, of course she did, fear flashing over her face as she was manhandled by this frightening stranger without warning, but she didn’t struggle. She knew how these things went, or at least she must think she did. 

Layla was honestly in the same boat. She would understand if Taroa did that to any of the Amavikka, but Vina was essentially uninitiated now, and he would probably only have this one opportunity to teach her anything. He couldn’t even be sure she could be trusted with a single story. Why was he bothering? 

Like usual, Taroa buried his face in her hair, nuzzling, the mouth of his mask right beside her ear while his hands lightly roamed over Vina’s stiff body; the perfect image of a man taking what he wanted, and whispering dirty nothings in her ear as he did. Curious, Layla went and sat on the ledge beside them, to Vina’s blind side; close enough to hear, but pretending to be absorbed in cooing and crooning to Dukkra as she washed him and listened. 

“... relax, I’m not going to hurt you,” she caught the tail end of his usual reassurances, and she smiled as Vina gradually relaxed, soothed by his unexpectedly gentle voice and kind hands. “That’s it. I’m sorry to take without asking, but tell me, little one, has anyone ever told you a story?” 

Vina stiffened all over again, this time panic of a different kind flashing in her eyes. The panic of someone that’s been discovered. Layla felt her own eyes go wide in shock. Did... did Vina remember?

“Relax, it’s alright. Do you remember the next part?” 

Her blue eyes darted around suspiciously, but she answered in the barest whisper. “I have heard a story.” 

It’s not quite the correct answer, but Taroa took it anyway. “Who told you those stories?” 

“My... mother?” 

“Why?” 

Hope began to eclipse the panic in her eyes. “To save my life.” 

“Good,” he rumbled, nearly a growl, letting the word be loud enough to be audible by more than just the four of them, adding an additional layer to the smokescreen before continuing in his murmur. “What do you remember?” 

Vina licked her lips nervously, eyes darting around, and turned her face to whisper her answer into Taroa’s ear, the perfect picture of a bath-house tryst. “I remember that what the Depuran do not know they cannot take. I remember Ar-Amu loves us, and Leia and Lukkamar will come someday.” 

“Have you asked anyone else in your new house if they know any stories?” 

She shook her head. “I didn’t remember how until you asked me.” 

He nodded, readjusting them so she was straddling his lap instead, but now she was fearless as they gazed into each others’ eyes, and Layla took a second to marvel at her own lack of jealousy. 

“I want to tell you a story, little sister. Will you listen?” 

Vina nodded, uncertain but curious. 

“Once,” Taroa began, his voice settling into its story-telling cadence as his fingertips traced patterns onto her skin- random to the uninitiated, but clearly Amavikka signs if you knew what you were looking at, which Layla did- and beginning to rock them lightly, suggestively, creating motion in the water. Only Layla was close enough to tell they weren’t actually having sex. “There was a slave, who was a child of Ar-Amu. He knew what all Amavikka know: that his face was Ekkereth’s face, his heart was Ar-Amu’s heart, the desert was in his bones and a dragon lived in his skin. He had a True Name that he held in his heart of hearts. He knew the wicked ways of the Depuran, and how Ekkereth tricked them over and over. He knew he was born to breathe free.” 

Layla paused, cocking her head. She didn’t know this story. Taroa continued. 

“One day, as is the way of the Depuran, he was sold away from his family and world, and carried only the stories and sacred knowledge with him. Even his japor was taken. He saved his water and didn’t look back, knowing someday Ar-Amu would gather them together again. But he had been sold to a new kind of Depur, and this Depur had the greatest evil yet, worse than chains and collars and beatings and even slavery itself.” 

They were both on the edge of their seats, Layla could tell. Her husband truly did have a way with words. 

“The Depuran had learned how to steal the past from their slaves.” Vina sucked in a shocked breath, like she hadn’t been expecting that. Layla smiled in wry amusement despite herself. “Depur tore the stories from the slave, and with them, his sacred knowledge, leaving him with only scraps in his mind. Depur took all they could; his name, his face, his home, his people. Depur said, you are only what I make of you, and called the slave an animal, and forced him to do Depur’s bidding. But Depur did not know they had failed, because while you may take the knowledge from the heart and soul, the desert never forgets, and the desert was in his bones. 

But the desert also keeps its silence. All the slave truly knew was that he was more than what Depur made of him, and what Depur did not know, they could not take. So he guarded his tongue, kept his silence, saved the precious scraps, and looked to the slaves around him, searching for the lost stories he only had scraps of. Every slave he met, he asked: ‘Has anyone ever told you a story?’ But no one could answer him correctly, and he was very lonely in this new Depur’s house. But still he kept his silence. 

Finally, the Grandmother of this new house came to him, and he asked her, ‘Has anyone ever told you a story?’

The Grandmother looked at him with wise eyes. ‘I have been told many stories, and retold them many times.’

‘Who told you these stories?’ he asked. 

‘My mother, child,’ she replied. 

‘Why?’

‘To save my life.’ 

‘Grandmother!’ The slave cried in joy, and clasped hands with her.” 

Taroa paused, shifting Vina on his lap again, and she curled closer, pressing up against his chest and hiding her face in his neck. Taroa petted her hair, closing his eyes and lounging against the pool wall in a facsimile of post-coital bliss, and continued. 

“The Grandmother took the slave on as her son, and did what mothers do; she taught him the ways of this new Depur, reminded him of his stories, and gave him a True Name, to hold in his heart of hearts and know when Depur called him an animal. She named him Taroa, the Storyteller.” 

Layla jolted, her eyes widening. This... was _his_ story? She gave up any pretense of not listening, turning her full attention to her husband. When Dukkra began to fuss, she absently guided him to nurse. Taroa glanced at them at Dukkra’s aborted cry, but did not stop. 

“Taroa and the Grandmother taught the slaves of this new house the stories of Ekkereth the Trickster, and that they were Ar-Amu’s children, for all slaves are the children of Ar-Amu. They taught them that the Depuran cannot take what they do not know about; the stories and words and sigils; that their faces were Ekkereth’s face, their hearts were Ar-Amu’s heart, the desert was in their bones and dragons lived in their skins. They planted seeds of hope and watered them with wisdom. They taught them well, and when some were sold on, their pasts and stories stolen, the desert in their bones remembered.” 

Gently, Taroa grasped Vina’s chin, making her sit up and meet his eyes. “The desert remembered, but kept its silence. So when some of these sold on slaves returned briefly to the house Taroa and Grandmother served in, Taroa reminded them.” 

His eyes were burning with conviction, and Vina appeared frozen, her eyes wide. Layla barely dared to breathe. 

“He told them, ‘Your face is Ekkereth’s face. Your heart is Ar-Amu’s heart. The desert is in your bones, and a dragon lives in your skin. You have a True Name, to hold in your heart of hearts. Remember the wicked ways of the Depuran, and the wisdom of the Trickster. And know that you are born to breathe free.’ 

He told them a story, and in that story, taught them the secret way to find each other, so they could share their scraps and remember, and find strength in each other. Then he sent them back to their Depuran houses, the Depuran none the wiser, and the stories spread. At first a slow seeping, then like a reservoir that fills abruptly as the water reaches a threshold, so many knew the stories that it was impossible for the Depuran to take the past completely; when one forgot, their past stolen, the slaves of their new house with the desert in their bones would give it back to them. And the Depuran could not take their bones. 

Thus, the Depuran evil was subverted, and the children of Ar-Amu know the past cannot be stolen, because the desert never forgets and the desert is in our bones. 

I tell you this story to save your life, little sister. Will you remember?” 

Vina blinked, chest heaving. She looked thunderstruck. “I’ll remember,” she whispered. Taroa nodded, pressing his fingertips to his own heart, then to the mouth of his mask, making the sign of remembrance. Vina copied him, the movements half-remembered on her. She bowed her head, pressing her brow against his, and whispered, her voice nearly lost in the splashing of water and hissing of steam, “Will Leia and Lukkamar come for us?” 

Taroa hummed noncommittally. “There are a thousand ways to be enslaved,” he whispered back, “And a hundred thousand ways to be made free. Leia and Lukkamar may come for you. Ekkereth may play a trick for you. Ar-Amu may gather us all together again. You may fight your way free like First, or manage to slip your chains with a trick of your own. You might taste dukkra. The key is to be wise, and clever, and when the time comes, don’t look back until you can breathe free.” 

Vina blinked away tears, but nodded, making the sign of remembrance again. This time her motions were fluid and sure. 

“What is my True Name?” she asked next. 

Taroa was silent for a long moment. Finally, he replied, “You are Vina Maru, the bringer of water and light, who hides the precious moons from the Depuran and gives them back to Ar-Amu’s children.” 

Vina bit her lip, clearly holding back a sob, but kept her silence like her namesake and nodded. 

“K'oyacyi,” Taroa whispered when she didn’t ask anything else. 

“K'oyacyi,” she repeated the blessing. 

“Now go, and don’t look back. Ar-Amu will watch over you.” Apparently with nothing more to say, Taroa sat back and drew his hands away, propping his elbows on the ledge to either side of him, his gaze going flat and uninterested. His voice regained volume, and was similarly flat. “I’m bored of this now. Off with you, little girl.” 

Vina nodded, slipping off his lap and leaving the pool, gathering her towel and robe and slipping from the room. The blue of her hair had scarcely disappeared before Blenda was there, slipping into the water beside Taroa and bringing their heads close. “What was that?” she hissed. 

Taroa’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “That,” he murmured back, hand encircling Layla’s calf and making her smile, “Was a shoot of hope, breaking through the loam.” 

Layla rolled her eyes at his mysteriousness- honestly, she was pretty sure at this point Taroa just found pleasure in being dramatic- but considered the story of Taroa the Storyteller. She also thought, not for the first time, about the first story Taroa told everyone, and told most, the story of Ekkereth and Umar, the Believer. If any of the stories could survive the mindwipes mostly remembered, it would be that one, from pure repetition alone. Combined... She was pretty sure she understood now. 

Still, that night in the secrecy of their apartment and the dark, curled up on his chest, Layla murmured, “Today, in the bath-house. Was that your story?” 

Taroa’s hand didn’t even pause in her hair. “Yes.” 

She frowned. “How many slaves have you reminded and sent back to their Masters with the stories?” 

Again, he doesn’t pause. “One.” 

Layla jolted, sitting up to meet his eyes. “What? But... oh, you’re not counting Vina.” 

His eyes crinkled at the corners, and he gently brushed the hair from her face. “I am, actually. Haven’t had the chance to, before. It’s rare for a slave to come back to their old house, even to visit.” He shrugged bashfully. "I wasn't sure it would work."

She gaped, then scowled at him. “So the story was a lie. The network of Amavikka, the reservoir theory- none of that’s happened yet.” 

“Not quite,” he hedged. “It doesn’t really matter if the story happened or not. Telling it, and Vina believing it, that makes it true. Makes all the stories true.” 

Huh. That was a thought. Layla thought about it for a moment, gazing into Taroa’s eyes. The story was... a plan? No, it was nowhere near concrete enough for that. But it was still a direct action, inspiring more direct actions, rather than just teaching lessons, so... “Technically, it’s a prophecy then.” 

Taroa snorted. “More like a dream. Dreams are where history, present, and the future mix and mingle, and birth the most wonderful and improbable and powerful things.” Things like justice and freedom, he didn’t say, but Layla heard anyway. 

She smiled with a huff of wry laughter. “Well, can’t argue with the results,” she murmured. “If you can get even a few slaves to remember... you’ve got the seeds of a full on revolution planted.” 

“Yes.” His hand cupped the back of her neck, gently pulling her down until their foreheads touched, and his voice dropped to a fervent whisper. “But more than that, when Dukkra leaves us someday,” Layla flinched at the reminder, her smile dropping, but Taroa ruthlessly pressed on, “If he only has the desert in his bones, the desert wind whispering scraps to him, maybe he’ll hear them in our voices. Like the scraps in my mind are in my brother’s voice. Stories in my voice, songs in yours, whispering to him in dreams that guide his way. And that way, the Depuran can never take us from him entirely.” 

Bizarrely, Layla was reminded of the lyrics of a song. Dreamweaver, she thought, as she laid down again, pressing her ear to his heart and letting him feel her breath on his skin, both of them warm and alive and _there,_ at least for now. Her husband; the Storyteller, the Prophet, the Dreamweaver. So strong, yet knowing his greatest strength was his mind, and how he used it. How she loved this brilliant man. Secretly, she smiled to herself. A tiny slave’s smile, the kind Bali used to do. 

Stories were some powerful shit. 


	10. Fly Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years on...

“... and Liea the Mighty One, spread her wings wide-” 

“Bu, bu, what Leia look like?” 

Taroa paused, blinking down at his interrupting son, and Blenda chuckled, her sister beside her doing the same. Four year old Dukkra was always doing that, interrupting his father in the middle of sentences to ask questions, sometimes relevant and sometimes not, but Taroa always reacted like he never did that, startled by the interruptions every time. 

The gathered children all glanced at each other, some annoyed by Dukkra’s interruption, others intrigued by the question. Amakuuna, sitting beside her older brother, was in the ‘annoyed’ camp and scowled at him as fiercely as a three year old could, splashing water at him that Dukkra ignored, focused on his father. The twins, Ebra and Mitta, sitting on her and Layla’s laps respectively, both giggled and followed their elder sister’s example, splashing their little hands in the water. Blenda was forced to quickly turn her head to avoid water in her face. Ebra laughed happily when she turned back to frown at him. 

Despite his startlement when Dukkra interrupted, Taroa never got annoyed, and he didn’t start now. His eyes softened as he considered Dukkra’s question for a long minute. Finally, he said, “Leia is Krayt. A dragon. She is huge, bigger than Depur, bigger than a house. She has wickedly sharp teeth and claws, and a hide no Depur’s weapon can pierce, a pure and dazzling white. She walks on ten legs, and flies on swift wings like her parent, the Trickster.” He paused, his gaze going hazy and far away, and softer, he added, “When she hunts, she looks like lightning.” 

Blenda frowned thoughtfully as the children oohed and ahhed in wonder. Sometimes Taroa would say things like he was in a trance, like he wasn’t quite sure what he was saying, and she knew he was trying to say half-remembered shreds of memories from his past when he did. She wondered if he had actually seen a Krayt before. It would make sense if he had. 

Taroa shook his head, focusing again, and going back to the story. “So Leia the Mighty One spread her wings wide, and the Depuran did tremble in the face of her glorious might-” 

A hand touched her shoulder, making her jump and look up sharply, only to see Garraj crouching beside the pool. The human kitchen slave smiled charmingly, his emerald green eyes glittering, as his hand lightly trailed down her bicep, lifting her arm and eventually down to her hand, which he lifted to his mouth in a parody of a noble Coreworlder’s gesture. Blenda let him, relaxing and returning his flirtatious smile. 

“My beautiful little bird,” he purred against her knuckles, “I would dearly love to keep you company in the sauna for a while.” 

_ Child of Ekkereth, I need to talk to you immediately, in absolute secrecy. _

Blenda was too well versed in the secrets to not immediately hear and understand the message, and too used to espionage at this point to even let a shadow of anything but coy flirtation on her face. 

“I’d be delighted,” she hummed in return. She turned to Layla, who raised a teasing eyebrow at her but took Ebra without a word. Blenda felt a flash of pride in her sister; she had grown so much since the first time she came to the bath-house. 

She followed Garraj into the sauna hand in hand, the two of them not even rating a glance from anyone else as they entered. Still, to be safe, they went to one of the back corners, Blenda sitting on the bench and smiling as Garraj sat next to her, his lithe body curling over her and tucking his face next to her ear, his hands roaming over her as he whispered. 

“My wife and my husband have heard a rumor,” he whispered urgently in Sleantah. “Master is planning to sell sixteen children next week.” 

Blenda felt her belly lurch, her hands clenching on his shoulders, but she didn’t let her smile slip, switching to Sleantah herself. “Who?” she asked. 

“I’m not sure, but all of them are going to be under ten and children of the farmhands,” he whispered back. 

“When next week?” 

“Dreithee.” 

Blenda allowed herself to swear softly. That was in eight days. Eight days to spirit away sixteen children, with no preparation, from the most difficult group to reach, and she wasn’t even sure which ones. 

She traced the Trickster on his shoulder.  _ Ekkereth guide us. _

He traced the Amarattu on her hip.  _ Ar-Amu protect us. _

Glancing around, Blenda verified they weren’t being watched before gently pushing Garraj away, standing. She flashed him a cheeky grin that he returned. “That was good. Thank you,” she giggled coyly. “If you ever want another session in the sauna, just let me know.” 

_ Thank you for this information. If you hear anything else, don’t hesitate to tell me. _

Garraj nodded, understanding flashing in his eyes. Blenda left and didn’t look back. 

That night, after giggling and fussy little ones were in bed, Blenda told Layla and Taroa what she had been told over tzai. Her brother and sister listened solemnly, their faces going dark. 

When she was done, Layla exchanged a look with her husband. “Leave it with us, sis,” she hummed. “Granny and Gramps are on the job.” 

Gratefully, Blenda nodded. While she took fierce pride in doing what she could to help others to escape (86 so far!), she knew her strengths were in execution, not planning. She was more than happy to leave that aspect to Taroa and Layla; and the less people who knew the details, the better. So she finished her tzai, kissed Layla’s cheek, clasped hands with Taroa, and left. 

If they had a part for her to play, she would hear of it later. If not... then she probably wouldn’t hear anything of the matter again, successful or not. So Blenda whispered a prayer, placed her faith in her siblings and the wisdom of Ar-Amu and Ekkereth, and went to bed. 

  
  
  


Mika looked up when she saw movement from the corner of her eye, smiling shyly at the sight of Taroa approaching her. He inclined his head slightly in greeting as he crowded her against the wall. His hands came up to rest on the shower wall on either side of her, his broad body blocking out the sight of the rest of the bath-house. His head ducked until his mask was next to her ear. 

“So’lannai, vod’ika,” he whispered. 

She swallowed, tensing a little, terror sharp and cold in her belly. She had never been  _ picked _ before; what could the freedom trail need from a lowly housemaid like her? What could she even  _ do? _ She wasn’t Ekkereth!

No, she corrected herself. She wasn’t just a housemaid. She was a Child of Ar-Amu. Ekkereth’s face was her face, Leia was her sister, Lukkamar might come if she asked right. A dragon lived in her skin, and she would not be afraid. Whatever it was, she could do it. 

“So’lannai, Gar-Ipa,” she whispered back, boldly placing her hands on his chest, over his steady heart. The beat felt like a drumbeat, calm and grounding, reminding her a dragon lived in his skin too, and she felt a little braver. “How can I help?” 

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Kandosii,” he murmured, and she didn’t recognize the word but she flushed at the praise evident in his tone. “Is there some cleaning chemical you have access to that, when ingested, will cause temporary illness but not death?” 

She blinked. “... yes. Lots.” 

“One that wouldn’t kill even a small child?” 

Alarm began to grow in her chest, and she knew her eyes were wide, but she dared not ask. “Yes, a few.” 

“Can you take some of this chemical without arousing suspicion?” 

She frowned. “How much?” 

“As much as you can,” he shrugged, but his golden eyes were anything but nonchalant. 

She hesitated, but answered, “Yes.” 

“Good,” he hummed. “Between today and midnight Gaungsday, take what you can, and slip away to the north border wall of the house. Bury it, and mark the place with the Kol-Depuan in the dirt. Tell no one, make sure you are not discovered. Can you do this, vod’ika?” 

Mika blinked. “... that’s it?” 

He chuckled but nodded. “That’s it.” He sobered. “Will you do this?” 

She bit her lip. She wanted to ask why, if she could do more, but she knew better. Umar taught all were needed on the trail, no matter how small a part- a turned eye was as powerful as a broken fetter- and she would heed the wisdom. So instead, she touched her fingertips to her heart, then her lips. “Midnight Gaungsday. I will remember.” 

“Good. Vercopa gar parjir, vod’ika. K’oyacyi.” 

“K’oyacyi.” 

  
  
  


Elohim frowned at the dirt-crusted, half full bottle of furniture cleaner in his hands, that he had been guided to by his contact among the house-slaves with the vague warning to act quickly, and felt torn. 

Many of the other parents gathered in the flickering lamplight did too, he could tell, couples exchanging loaded looks and clutching their children to them in the tense quiet. Beside him, he saw his wife hug their two daughters close to her sides out of the corner of his eye. 

“Dukkra ba dukkra,” someone muttered, breaking the silence. 

“But which will we be sending our children to?” someone else growled fearfully. 

He looked at his lover, meeting Lyra’s eyes. They were frightened, tears filling her blue eyes, but he could see his own thoughts reflected there, and his hand clenched around the bottle. 

Elohim wasn’t sure which dukkra they might be sending them to. But he knew for sure which they would be going to if they were sold, and which he preferred his daughters to taste. 

Even if it tasted like furniture polish. 

  
  
  


“Koldep flu?” Lieutenant Jundice snarled. 

“Yes, Master,” Yeoha, the Grandparent of the field slaves, answered softly, keeping their gaze on his well-polished boots. “Common on Ryloth. I do not know how it came here, but it is unmistakable. It afflicts little children, and often kills them, but doesn’t affect healthy adults. There is a remedy-” 

“Slave trickery!” he raged, and Yeoha cringed, shrinking away from his anger. 

“I don’t think so, sir,” one of the guards that had brought them to Master spoke up, sounding unsure and troubled. “I saw those slaves. No one vomits like that on purpose, and little children are hardly good actors.” 

“Huuugh!” Jundice snarled, aggravated, but more willing to accept the word of his guard. “Fine. Sargent! Make sure the overseers know I expect those slaves not to be slacking off from grief!” 

“Yes, sir!” 

“You! Away with you,” he shooed Yeoha away carelessly. 

“But Master,” they dared to whisper, “the remedy...?” 

“There will be no medicine for this,” he snapped. “Let the deadweight either survive on their own or die. And burn the bodies, so it doesn’t spread.” 

“Please, Master,” they dared to whimper. 

“Go!” he roared, cuffing their head, and Yeoha scampered from the room. They waited until they were all the way back to the farmhand’s barracks, safe, to allow themselves a tiny smile. 

Like herding a bantha. 

  
  
  


In the end, eight children and two teenlings were reported to have died to the Master, and ten children were sold on immediately after. The following periodic flare-ups of ‘koldep flu’ that followed never ceased to annoy the Master, but gradually they became commonplace. Below his notice. 

Slave children had a high mortality rate anyway. The method by which they died was of no consequence.

  
  
  


_ (Listen, children, and I will tell you the story of how Ekkereth stole away the children of the field with the secret of the Kol-Depuan. That secret is: the simplest tricks are the most effective, when prepared correctly. The secret is, freedom can be begotten through the most subtle of ways.  _

_ The secret is this: the unseen bonds that connect us are what set us free from Depur’s fetters.  _

_ I tell you this story to save your life.) _


	11. Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ruus Sandstrider makes a friend, and wheels are set in motion.

Ruus Sandstrider grinned as the last echoing notes of a rousing rendition of Vode An faded away, shereshoy bubbling in his chest and spilling from him as laughter, joining the whoops and cheers of the other Vode’ade around him. Beside him, Upani grinned just as brightly as he was, the expression warping the Leia tattooed on his cheek. He threw his arm over Ruus’ shoulders, and Ruus didn’t hesitate to return the gesture, knowing the matching Kol-Depuan on his own cheek was similarly warped. Their Sargent, Sargent Dex, chuckled and shook his head at the squad’s antics, but fondly pounded a fist against Ruus’ and Hawk’s pauldrons, the two of them sitting closest to him. Ruus sighed happily. 

He would never get used to this, this feeling of belonging with these bold and fierce people; so different from the Amavikka, yet so strangely akin to them. It didn’t matter to them that he had been a slave; they were once too. It didn’t matter that he was Twi’lek and they were clones, or at least the sons of clones; as far as they were concerned, all who had undergone slavery were their brothers. Before he was freed, before Diamond’s Men, the Anumakkar, had come, he had never truly understood what it looked like to live completely free and fearless. Even freemen on Tatooine lived at the mercy of gangs and the desert, but the Vode’ade bowed to no one. And they had taught him to do the same. To sing at the top of his lungs, declaring to the galaxy that he was free and always would be, to wear Freedom Marks without fear, far from the reach of the desert. 

Now, he could hardly imagine bearing living any other way. 

“Oya!” Upani cried, thrusting a fist in the air. 

“Alright, alright,” the waiter rolled his eyes as he approached their booth. "Let's keep it down to a dull roar, eh, boys?" 

"Boo," Upani pouted. "You're no fun, Dimi." 

"Keep on sassing me, see what happens. I can kick you out, you know," Dimi sniffed, though he couldn't quite hide the teasing humor in his eyes. 

“And loose the view?” Upani shot back with an arched eyebrow, gesturing broadly to himself. Ruus rolled his eyes. 

Dimi raised his own eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. “You know, you make an excellent point,” he hummed thoughtfully. Upani grinned, chest puffing out proudly- Abruptly, Dimi jerked his thumb at the door. “The view stinks. Out.” 

Ruus laughed with the rest of the squad as Upani deflated, slumping over on the table. “So meeean,” he whined into the tabletop. Ruus patted his back consolingly as he snickered. 

Sargent Dex chuckled and chimed in. “Go on, Upani, Ruus. Your duty shift’s about to start.” 

Ruus offered him a playful, off-handed salute. “As you say, Sarge. C’mon, scenic boy.” He lightly shoved Upani’s shoulder. His brother grumbled but stood, and Ruus followed him out onto the street. 

As they patrolled through the marketplace, they chatted amiably but kept alert. Patrols had to be serious in Outer Rim outposts like these, especially since they were so close to Zygerian space. You never knew what you might see. 

Or what might see you. 

Ruus paused, something in the corner of his eye catching his attention, and turned his head to follow it, finding a child standing in the mouth of an alley. They were a skinny little human of indeterminate gender, maybe six, with oblong dark eyes and messily cropped black curls. Something about the shape of their face, though, was decidedly... familiar. They had obviously been living rough for a while, dirt smudged on their face and their clothes ratty and ill fitting, and they were staring at him and Upani with big, stunned eyes. 

Ruus frowned and bumped Upani with an elbow. “ _ Hey, look- _ ” 

Before he could finish, a teenage Twi’lek boy melted out of the shadows of the alley, shooting a suspicious look at the market at large, catching the child up and the pair of them melting back into the alley. 

“ _ What? _ ” Upani prompted, looking but obviously not catching the pair. “ _ What did you see? _ ” 

Ruus shook his head, checking that his bucket cam had been recording, which of course it had been. He got it on holo. The child hadn’t appeared to be distressed by the Twi’lek teenling, the boy probably a guardian or elder sibling of some sort, so they probably weren't kidnapped, and while they were on patrol was not the time to work on the local homeless problem. So he put whatever was bothering him about the child's face to the side, made a mental note to mention to the local law enforcement there appeared to be some homeless kids running around, and said, “ _ Never mind. Thought I saw a mythosaur. _ ” 

He’d review the footage later. For now, he focused on his duty. 

  
  
  


Ruus started seeing the urchin everywhere. At first, just out of the corners of his eyes, maybe once every few days, always when he was patrolling the market. Then they started getting bolder. Once every few days became every other day, then daily. They stopped darting when he looked directly at them, meeting his gaze more and more boldly, and eventually returning his smiles. He noticed the urchin following him on his patrols, though they never followed him all the way back to base, refusing to leave town. 

Eventually, they started bringing friends. 

There were only two that he noticed. The most common one was another small child, a Togruta, about the same age and similarly indeterminate in gender with wide silver eyes and yellowish gray stripes on their stubby lekku that blended nicely with their grayish violet skin; the two seemed to be friends, potentially adoptive siblings. The other was the Twi’lek teenling with the wary eyes. The youngling never got as close as they usually did when the Twi’lek was there, confirming his suspicions that the Twi’lek was a guardian of some kind. The youngling seemed to be in the process of convincing the Twi’lek he was safe to approach; despite his curiosity, Ruus decided to simply sit back, making sure they knew he noticed them, but making no advances of his own. Letting them come to him in their own time. 

Three ten-days after he saw the child for the first time, he was returning to base from a solo trip into town, precious monthly supply of tzai (courtesy of his dear Amu, still back on Tatooine but free and happy now) secured. Feeling content and happy, he began to whistle Vode An. 

He heard the small, pattering footsteps running towards him just before he felt a small form crash into his legs, little hands grabbing for his free hand. Startled, he froze, and looked down. 

The urchin stared up at him with wide, hopeful eyes. “I know that song!” 

Blinking away his shock, Ruus carefully crouched down to the youngling’s level, slipping off his bucket so they were eye to eye, and smiled warmly. “Do you?” 

They nodded vigorously. “That’s Bu’s lullaby.” Almost shyly, a little hand reached up to trace the Kol-Depuan on his cheek with light fingertips. In a near whisper, they added, eyes intense and searching, “You got a Broken Fetter. An’ your friend got a Mighty One.” 

Carefully, Ruus answered, “We do.” Taking a chance, he said softly, “Ek masa nu Ruus Leia ka, ad’ika.” 

The child blinked, then like the dawn, a brilliant grin spread over their face. “Ek masa nu Amakuuna Tikeri ku!” she burst, bubbling with excitement. “But everybody call me Luna.” 

Ruus smiled. “Jat’urcir, Luna.” He looked up when he noticed movement behind her, finding the Twil’lek teenling with a resigned, exasperated frown on his face and the little Togruta’s hand in his, the pair lingering only a few steps back. He offered them a smile too that the Togruta, at least, shyly returned. “Su cuy’gar,” he chuckled. “And you are?” 

“Very annoyed,” the Twi’lek grumbled. Ruus barked a laugh. 

“Fair enough,” he chuckled. 

Annoyed frowned down at Luna, holding out his other hand, the girl sheepishly going back to him and taking his hand. “I told you not to run off-!” he started to hiss at her, worried rather than mean, and Luna seemed to be more than willing to defend herself judging by her immediate whines of protest, so Ruus let his attention slide to the little Togruta when they spoke. 

“I’m Turu,” the little Togruta piped up, half-hiding behind Annoyed’s leg. 

“Turu!” Annoyed hissed in censure, but they continued to hold Ruus’ gaze, certain despite their shyness. 

Ruus grinned. “Jat’urcir, Turu.” 

Annoyed shook his head, lifting his eyes and hands to the sky in supplication. “You two are impossible!” he groaned. 

“But it’s safe!” Luna protested, scowling up at Annoyed, her balled fists on her hips and puffing up like a little Sargent as she stood her ground. “He knows the words and wears a Kol-dep! And he knows my Bu’s song! Maybe he knew my Bu before!” 

Ruus’ mind stuttered to a halt as several bits of information suddenly clicked together, forming a picture. He looked at Luna’s face again, studying it. He nearly swore as he suddenly realized how her face was familiar. Younger, yes, and heavily influenced by whoever had carried her, yes, but unmistakable in the jaw and brow. 

Carefully, he schooled his expression, not wanting to scare any of them off, especially Annoyed. Remaining crouching, to keep himself as non-threatening as possible, he hummed, “You know, I just might.” 

  
  
  


Luna frowned up at Sargent Dex, her eyebrows furrowed and hands on her hips again. Sargent stared right back with a raised eyebrow. Ruus fought the urge to snicker. 

After a long minute, she lifted a hand, positioning it just so and tilting her head, apparently studying the effect. Finally, she lowered her hand and asked softly, “Do you know my Bu?” 

Sargent hummed noncommittally, glancing at Avi, their medic, who had finally looked up from his medic’s ‘padd. Avi nodded slightly, face grim. 

Sargent Dex’s mouth went tight. “Send a message to headquarters immediately. Highest priority, Red Alert.” Avi nodded and left with a purposeful stride. When Dex turned back to her, his face softened. “You, little one,” he hummed, “Are Vode’ade.”

Luna’s eyes were wide, Turu’s beside her equally wide. “Wow,” she breathed. “What that mean?” 

Ruus grinned. “It means, vod’ika, that you are part of a proud people, with a glorious history, and you will never be a slave again. Haat, Ijaa, Haa'it.” At her confused frown, he chuckled, “Don’t worry. We’ll teach you.” 

  
  
  


The ship that landed on the landing padd was small and spartan, almost militant, with symbols painted on the side; the Anumakkar, painted in white, beside an equally prominent rendition of the Diamond’s Men variant of the Vode’aliik. Three beings, two flanking the leader in a tight formation and all three in colorfully decorated but primarily white armor, marched down the ramp and immediately made a beeline for the waiting welcoming party of two more figures in similar armor, one clone and one Twi’lek, and a wary looking Twi’lek teenling. 

As they approached, the three newcomers removed their helmets, tucking them under their arms like the waiting two had. The man in the lead, a nearly sixty year old Fett clone, was frowning thunderously, his companions- a much younger Fett clone and a red-haired woman- similarly grim faced. 

“Is it true?” the old one demanded. 

Sargent Dex nodded. “It’s true.” He hesitated a moment, before cautiously asking, “Alor. Do you think it could be...?” 

Guilt flashed in his eyes. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “But I can’t think of anyone else it could be. Can you?” Sargent Dex grimaced. 

“What are you talking about?” The Twi’lek teenling interjected, a confused and annoyed crease to his brow. 

The older clone raised an eyebrow. “And you are?” 

“Ilar Windchild,” the Twi’lek snapped. The green skinned Twi’lek adult in armor placed a hand on the blue youth’s shoulder, Ilar shooting a mulish look at him but subsiding. He continued more politely, “Who do you people think Luna’s dad is?” 

Commander Diamond’s lips pursed, his eyes going far away. “Does the name Tor Alverd mean anything to you?” 


	12. Search Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arreru Alverd hasn't slept well in twelve years. 
> 
> Neither has Boba Fett.

Arreru Alverd knocked back another shot of rotgut with a grimace. 

Another dead end. 

This lead had been the most promising in months, promising enough for him to actually go to Zygeria. Disguised, of course, in spacer’s leathers instead of his full armor, and his skin still crawled just being near so many slavers, but... well. No sense crying over wasted time now. 

Arreru sighed, rubbing his eyes. The twelve year anniversary of Tor’s disappearance had passed six weeks ago. Even the most hopeful would have given up by now, admitted his vod’ika body probably had been eaten by some wild animal on that moon all those years ago. Diamond had given up almost as soon as they found his bucket, and Arreru still hadn't quite forgiven him for it. Cody and Gree and Mira had at least waited until a thorough search for his remains was conducted, and when neither remains nor ransom had ever turned up, added his name to their remembrances. 

But he couldn't accept that. Couldn't accept he had failed his vod'ika so thoroughly. And the alternative... 

The alternative, that Tor had been taken, was worse than death. And while there was a sliver of doubt if he lived or not, Arreru would keep looking. Even if he had been mind-wiped, Fett clones were pretty damn recognizable. Someone had to know _something_. 

For a time, Tal and Boba had both stayed with him, helped him search. Boba, predictably, had been called away by the duty of Mand'alor before long; Arreru didn't hold it against him. Duty came first, they all knew that, and Boba was still guilty about it to this day, coming to help whenever he could. Tal, on the other hand, had been just as distraught at the loss of his twin as Arreru, just as unwilling to admit Tor was gone. But with every false lead, every dead end, where Arreru had grown more determined, Tal had grown more discouraged. 

In slow, painful stages, Tal had moved on too. 

He was doing alright, these days; his efforts in the conservation movement on Cin Vehtin, particularly the conservation of skydivers, was finally yielding results, and every clutch of hatchlings from the breeding program he gushed about like they were his own younglings. Things between him and his cyar'ika, a Vod called Yvonne, were getting serious; everyone expected them to turn up married any day now. Really Arreru supposed he couldn't ask for more, and he didn't begrudge his vod'ika his happiness, not really. 

Finding Tor was his responsibility, in the end. 

Arreru sighed, burying his face in his hands. Maybe it was time to... Take a break. Go home and get debriefed, visit his aliit; Mira's eldest had a birthday coming up... 

He froze, ear flicking towards the kitchen. Slowly, he turned. 

A little girl was dashing from the half-opened kitchen door, a time-beaten old human woman watching her go. Both of them were wearing slave collars, and neither looked Mando'ade. 

Yet, he could have sworn he just heard the old woman say, "K'oyacyi, child." 

Not quite daring to hope, Arreru stood and went to the kitchen. 

The woman had disappeared, but the kitchen staff helpfully pointed him to the prep area, where the woman was working at some kind of dough. She watched his approach with wary, milky green eyes. 

Arreru cut straight to the chase. "That word. K'oyacyi. Where did you learn it?" 

She lowered her gaze, shaking her head slightly. "I have had my past stolen." 

Arreru swore. Force-damned mind-wipes! He hoped the soul of whoever came up with the damn things went through all the War Hells, and the Corellian Hells, and got a visit from all the Ka'ra for good measure. 

The old woman looked at him with a measuring glimmer in her wary, milky eyes. Arreru held still, recognizing the look of someone trying to decide if he could be trusted. Taking a risk, he murmured softly in Sleantah, "So'lanai. It's alright." 

The woman blinked, then firmed. Arreru felt his hope bloom again. 

"Has anyone ever told you a story, child?" she asked, voice barely a whisper. 

Arreru froze and blinked. Anumakkar answered. "I have been told many stories, and retold them many times, Grandmother." 

The woman nodded, satisfied. "Come back tonight, after the moonrise. Come to the back door. We will talk then. Go." 

Arreru wanted to protest, to scream in frustration. Wanted to shake her and demand answers _now_. But Arreru Anumakkar Alverd, long before he was a child of the Brotherhood, was a child of the desert, and knew that would get him nowhere. So he bit his tongue, nodded, and left. 

  
  
  


Boba Fett regretted choosing to become Mand'alor some days. For many reasons; being away from his clan and homeworld so often, losing so many days to travel time, having to subject himself to the sniveling osik of politicians. Today, he regretted it because it kept him from his ori’vod. 

He had already been annoyed after a long and fruitless debate with Korkie over exactly who got jurisdiction over bounty hunters _again-_ for the last time, just because they belonged to a guild didn't mean Korkie got to pass mandates on them!- that had ended in another verbal stalemate when he received a comm on his personal holo transmitter. Not the restricted one; the personal one, the one only his aliit had the code to. Naturally, he checked it, expecting Mira with a formal invitation to his niece's birthday party, or maybe Cody just calling to check in- the old Commander was becoming increasingly chatty as he aged- but was unsurprised to see Arreru's code. He felt his mood worsen. 

His ori'vod had commed him about a ten-day ago, saying he had found a new lead on Tor and was following it. This was probably him letting Boba know he was back from Zygeria, in a safe port, and preparing to pursue another wild tooka. 

Boba regretted, fiercely, that he couldn't be with Arreru. Not because he thought him being there would make a difference in the search; Tor was most likely dead, no two ways about it. And if he wasn’t, well, Boba took pride in his skills as a bounty hunter, but even his skill had nothing on the single-minded, strill-like determination Arreru searched for their lost vod’ika with. There was literally nothing Boba could do that Arreru wasn’t already doing. No, he regretted that he couldn’t be there to talk Arreru down. 

He understood why Arreru had taken Tor’s death so personally. Arreru had been the squad leader, the one responsible for everyone making it out. And he had failed in that. You never forgot the first man to die under your command, Boba knew, and some people were never able to accept it and move on, never able to trust themselves again. Arreru had turned out to be one of those. 

Sometimes, Boba wondered if he had had just a few more months with him and Tal, just a few, if he might have been able to convince Arreru to grieve and let go cleanly. To go back to the creche, or maybe join his retinue, and live his life in honor of Tor, instead of this awful limbo he existed in instead, eternally chasing Tor’s ghost and slowly becoming one himself. Sallia had gotten married six years ago; he didn’t know if Arreru had even noticed. He wandered in like a feral lothcat every once in a while, on Gathering Day or on a birthday. Commed every once in a while, short concise sit-reps. But those times were becoming fewer and fewer. They all worried one day he just... wouldn't show up again, and they would all quietly add the name Arreru Alverd to their litanies. 

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Shaking away the melancholic thoughts, Boba answered his comm, and Arreru popped up in miniature. In his duster coat bounty hunter outfit, not his armor, Boba noted. His ori’vod seemed to be gripped by some kind of manic energy, his eyes wild. 

“Arreru,” he barked, immediately concerned. This was no standard sit-rep. “What’s wrong?” 

“ _Boba,_ ” his voice crackled with poor connection and distance, strangely warped, but the borderline panic in it still clearly carried. “ _I found Tor._ ” 

Boba froze. Arreru was always careful to manage expectations; to say things like ‘might’ and ‘I think’ and ‘possible lead’. Never ‘I know.’ Never ‘I found him’. 

“Where?” he demanded. 

“ _A plantation on one of Zygeria’s satellites. The home of Scintel’s cousin, or something._ ” Arreru leaned forward, intense. Desperate. “ _Boba,_ **_I saw him._ ** _With my own eyes. He’s there._ ” 

He frowned. “Show me.” 

Obligingly, Arreru hit a button, and his ori’vod’s image was replaced with holofootage. A recording of two beings fighting viciously. One was a hardened Twi’lek woman, but the other... 

Boba carefully studied the second figure, critically dissecting it. Human or near-human male, impossible to tell height without a reference, but athletically built. Long dark hair, curly. Movements were vicious and practiced; and more importantly, Boba recognized the hallmarks of formal training, not just experience brawling. He was wearing a few dinged, poorly cared for plates of light colored armor over dark clothes, seemingly randomly selected; Boba couldn’t quite tell the material in holo, but it could be plastoid and the style was GAR. The male ducked, tucking into a neat forward roll, popping to his feet and turning. Boba paused on a frame with a good still of his face, zooming in, and swore viciously. 

His face was half covered with the bottom half of a faceplate. 

Boba snarled. Could be Tor. Could be anybody. Experimentally, he pulled up a holo of Tal on his ‘padd, and he held the two holos side by side, frowning as he compared them; or at least, what he could of them. 

“ _Well?_ ” Arreru’s voice crackled. 

Boba sighed as the footage dissolved and re-materialized into Arreru’s form. “It might be Tor,” he allowed reluctantly. “Did he see you? Did he recognize you?” 

Pain flashed across Arreru’s eyes. “ _I... I saw him. He didn’t see me._ ” He lowered his head for a second, hiding his face, and Boba ached for his ori’vod, but in a moment he looked up again and plowed on. “ _But he’s probably been mind-wiped._ ” 

“Probably,” Boba hummed, his thoughts already whirling with battle plans. “At the very minimum, if he isn’t Tor he’s a Vod. No mistaking that.” He glanced at his chrono, calculating the time difference between Concord Dawn and Di’base. “You’ve already done initial surveillance it sounds like?” 

Arreru nodded grimly. “ _Transmitting now._ ” 

Boba checked the files that started to download, nodding in approval. “Good. Let me assemble a team and we’ll come meet you. Where are you now?” 

Arreru rattled off a string of coordinates. “ _It’s a fuel stop about a half-jump away from Zygeria_.” 

“Sounds good,” he hummed absently. “Wait for us there. We should be about a week.” 

“ _No. Too long. I move in two days,_ ” Arreru insisted. 

“Arreru,” Boba snapped, re-focusing and frowning at him. “Don’t be stupid. You’re no use dead, and neither is Tor. _Wait for backup._ ” Softer, he added, “Please, ori’vod. Let us help you.” 

Arreru snarled, hackles raising and ears flattening backwards. “ _I won’t just leave him there-!_ ” 

“He’s been there for twelve years, vod,” Boba sighed, regretting making Arreru flinch, but it had the intended effect of making him fall quiet and listen. “Two more weeks, to properly coordinate and plan, won’t make a difference on that front. But I know you know damn well the difference it can make between success and failure, especially on a mission as delicate as this. I won't risk losing him again, and you, for your impatience. Please. _Wait for backup_.” 

The Arreru he knew before, his ori'vod, would have gnashed his teeth and snarled but reluctantly agreed. But now...

Now Arreru just looked at him with haunted, exhausted eyes, nodded, and cut the transmission. He didn’t even say ‘K’oyacyi’. 

Boba slumped back in his chair, allowing himself to bury his face in his hands and just... process, for a minute, breathing deliberately slow and controlled. 

_On your feet, soldier! There’s work to be done!_

He shook himself, headed Alpha-26’s voice, and stood, marching off purposefully. It was time to rescue his vod. Both of them.  
  


“What do you mean, you know?!” Boba hissed, eyes narrowing dangerously. 

Commander Diamond was too seasoned to flinch or shy away, even from the anger of the Mand’alor. He lifted his chin defiantly, glaring right back. “ _ We’ve only uncovered evidence to suggest it less than two months ago, _ ” he snapped back. “ _ We haven’t even confirmed it is Tor yet. Six Vode and Vod’ike have gone missing, presumed dead, in the Outer Rim in the last eight years. It could be any one of them. There was no point in getting anyone’s hopes up until we had more solid information. _ ” 

“We’re his  _ aliit, _ Diamond-!” Gree started to snarl, echoing Boba’s sentiments with a much less rational state of mind behind it. Cody’s hand landed on his shoulder, restraining him, though his own expression was just as thunderous as his riduur’s. 

“What evidence did you uncover?” Boba sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, hoping to ward off a headache. 

This time, Diamond’s eyes went softly pained. “ _ His child. _ ” After a beat of silence, he offered, “ _ She says she has four siblings. _ ” 

Mira swore vehemently, throwing something across the room. No one even flinched. 

“ _ And yours? _ ” Diamond inquired with an arched brow. 

“Arreru stumbled upon a slave that spoke a few words of Mando’a, but couldn’t remember where she had learned them and had no other indicators of being Mando’ade,” Boba briskly informed him. “He bought her to get access to her sales records and tracked down her last three owners. The third one he checked has a gladiator in his stable he calls Strill, and appears to be Vode.” 

Diamond nodded grimly. “ _ Send us coordinates. We’re on our way. _ ” 


	13. The Mighty One and the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For all his staunch belief, Taroa Tikeri had never expected to see Ekkereth in person.

Eleven years after meeting his mother and gaining his name, Taroa finds himself both blessed and burdened. 

He is still called Strill, still called to hurt and kill at Depur’s word, but it is only part of his life. He is more than what Depur makes of him. 

He is the Storyteller, the Grandfather of the slave’s quarters in Depur’s house. He is the chosen Husband of Layla Tikeri, who despite her chains weighing on her more and more with every new child, remains fierce and full of songs and tricks. He is the Buir of several children, with another growing in his wife; Dukkra Tikeri, Amakuuna Tikeri, Ebra Tikeri, Mitta Tikeri, and the growing child not yet named. To Depur, they are known as Duke, Luna, Evera, and Mikah, but Taroa knows their True Names and keeps them in his heart of hearts. He also knows and keeps the names of the three slaves he has reminded of the stories and given True Names, for he supposes in teaching and naming them he has become, in a way, their father, like Bali became his mother. Even eight years on, he misses his mother like a wound, freshly reminded of her loss every time he tells a story in the bath-house, or is presented with a new problem and craves her wisdom, but despite the pain he prays he might never have her memory stolen from him. 

He also prays for his eldest daughter. In the early part of the year, merely months previous, they were presented a rare opportunity, and they had taken it. He had pressed his brow to hers, Layla had tearfully sung a final lullaby. They made sure Amakuuna had her jerba cord anklet, and they had tucked their wide-eyed but obediently silent daughter away in a secret compartment in the bottom of a laundry basket, sending her away. They had debated over which of the children to send; but it turned out to be a short debate. They had both wanted to send Dukkra, but knew they couldn’t have gotten away with it. Depur was too invested in the boys, Depur’s prize future gladiator calves. The girls, however... The twins were both too young to send on their own at only four. So Amakuuna it was. 

When Depur finally noticed one of his children was missing, weeks later, Taroa lied and told him she had died of the koldep flu. He wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or enraged that Depur merely shrugged and said ‘at least it wasn’t one of your sons.’ So he bit his tongue, bowed his head, and prayed. 

For the first time in his memory, he prayed for more. 

  
  
  


It was during a tournament that he had a vision. 

Taroa still wasn’t sure what caused him to look up after defeating the Twi’lek woman. But he did, scanning the viewing boxes as their occupants cheered for the show. It was the box three places to his Depur’s right that caught his attention. 

In it sat a tawny Zygerian with glittering earrings all up the outside edge of his ears, dressed like a bounty hunter, sitting stiffly and watching with a hard expression. He was the only one not clapping, his arms crossed tightly over his chest; perhaps that was what had drawn his attention. But it was the figure standing beside him that made his heart stop. 

Bali attended the unknown Zygerian. 

She was a little older, a little sadder, with a kind of cowl draped over her head and wrapped around her neck and shoulders, her gaze downcast, but it was his Mother. As he stared, her jade green eyes flicked up, meeting his, clearer than they had ever been. There was no recognition in them, but there was a gleam that made his chest swell. 

Her mouth formed a word, and his heart nearly stopped again. 

Lukemma, she seemed to say. _Freedom_. 

"Come on, No-Face," the guard barked, snapping him out of his trance. He dropped his eyes regretfully and followed. He didn't look back. 

In the steam, he told the other Amavikkan of his vision. 

"Ekkereth has appeared to me," he announced in the hushed sauna after the usual seven stories. "Wearing the face of Grandmother Bali, and bearing news of freedom." 

Wide-eyed looks were exchanged, murmurs of surprise and excitement breaking out. 

"Leia and Lukkamar are coming?" Dukkra blurted, his eyes shining with hope. Hope that was reflected in several other Amavikkan eyes. 

Taroa hummed noncommittally, drawing his son close to his side. "I don't know," he admitted softly. "Ekkereth didn't gift me any details. But we will be wise, and clever, and alert. And when the time comes, we will be ready." 

"We'll be ready," the murmur traveled through the sauna, hands pressing to hearts and then lips. 

Taroa did the same. "K'oyaci, Vode. Ar-Amu watch over you." 

That night, he sat in his chair and stared out the window. Layla joined him, carefully sitting on his lap and curling around him, resting her head on his. His hands came to rest on her, one supporting her back, the other on her belly, rubbing softly. Her own arms draped over his shoulders. 

“Did you really see her?” she asked in a whisper.

He sighed. “I don’t know. I hope so.” 

"What do you really think is going to happen?" she pressed softly. 

He shrugged. "Who knows." 

Her hand dropped from his shoulder to her belly, laying over his and lacing their fingers together as they cradled their next child. “We’re still going to walk through the trees, right? Together?” 

“Together,” he swore. “Te masu em lukkema.” Her hand tightened on his, gripping in a tight squeeze, and her lips pressed to his temple. 

They fell silent, and watched the sky together until the sun rose. 

  
  
For a month after that, there was no further sign. Life simply carried on as before. Depur and his enforcers did not notice the slaves lingering together in quiet corners, or meeting in the dark of the night in groups of two or three, or the whispers passing in steam. Did not notice the sparks of a wildfire spreading. 

Freedom, they whispered to each other. Freedom is coming, and soon. Pass it on and keep it close. 

Be ready. 

  
  
  


“Get up, No-Face.” 

Taroa felt his shoulders tighten, his spine straighten, and turned his face down as he stood, gently setting Mitta down beside her twin and Blenda. His daughter whined, but didn’t protest. Even at four, she knew just as well as he did when Depur called a slave must answer. 

“You! Lieutenant wants you too,” the guard tacked on, and Taroa froze. He didn’t have to look up to know which of his family the guard was addressing. 

“Me?” Dukkra squeaked out. 

“What do you want with him-?” Layla began to snarl, protective. 

“Come,” he interrupted her before she could earn a punishment, and she fell silent. He held out his hand. “Master calls. Come, verd’ika.” 

“Smart slave,” one of the guards snickered. Taroa ignored them. 

He heard, faintly, Layla reluctantly whisper, “K’oyacyi, baby,” and a moment later, Dukkra’s hand slid into his, and they left, herded along by Depur’s enforcers. Dukkra looked up at him, his eyes wide and frightened. Taroa firmly pushed down his own fear. Strill couldn’t afford to be afraid. He would simply do what he must; and he would teach his son how to do the same. 

“Atiniir,” he whispered to his son. Dukkra firmed, his mouth going stubbornly set like Layla’s did, and though his eyes were still frightened, he rolled his shoulders back, and bowed his head, darting his eyes, clearly attempting to copy him. Taroa squeezed his hand, thumb drawing the Leia on the back of his little hand, and Dukkra squeezed back. 

They didn’t give him armor or weapons, just led them to the small arena, so it was a private viewing instead of a tournament. Taroa did not relax. Much could still happen. 

Every gladiator in the house was gathered in the smaller arena, including a few children like Dukkra, clearly earmarked for the arena by Depur like his son was, warily murmuring to each other. He moved to join them, keeping a firm hold on his son. The Amavikkan among them made small gestures of respect that he returned. Kellen, a scarred but nimble Twi’lek and the leader of the Amavikkan in the gladiator barracks in his absence, drifted to his side, pretending to look over his son. 

“Do you know what’s going on?” he asked under his breath. 

Taroa warily shook his head no. “Be careful.” 

“Naturally.” Kellen smiled at Dukkra, patted his head, and moved back into the crowd, though kept line of sight with him. 

They weren’t kept in suspense long. 

One of the guards, a brutish Zygerian called Jiron, entered the arena with a pair of guards flanking him and a calculating gleam in his eye. Taroa shifted, subtly placing himself between Jiron and his people. 

If Jiron noticed, he didn’t indicate it, simply beginning to bark. “Alright, you scum, listen up! Lieutenant wants a demonstration of what his slaves can do for his guest. Pair off, then give me two of you.” 

Taroa blinked, exchanging a surprised glance with Kellen as the gladiators did the same around them, glancing at each other then looking towards him and Kellen. Simple sparring? For a guest of their Depur? There had to be more. 

Kellen shrugged. “Giv, Hu’lgar,” the Twi’lek called, soft but authoritative, naming two of the Amavikkan. Taroa nodded to himself in approval; they were vode, and often playfully roughhoused in the bath-house. They knew each other well, and would easily give a good show. 

The called men stepped forward, facing off in the circle Jiron made in the dirt with his boot toe. As they began to wrestle, Taroa watched them with half his attention, the rest focused up on the viewing box favored by Depur. It wasn’t long before they were graced with his presence. 

Taroa risked looking up at the box, and was startled to recognize the guest as the Zygerian that Bali had accompanied. His face was still hard, but he met Taroa’s eyes, and something in them burned. Taroa dropped his eyes to the wrestlers again, gut churning with anticipation. Something was about to happen, he just _knew_ it- 

“ _Amavikkan._ ” 

The entire arena froze, slave and slaver alike shocked as the disembodied voice of someone, made loud but slightly tinny by the emergency intercom system it was being piped through, spoke. Taroa felt his breath catch in his chest, his eyes go wide. Dukkra’s hand in his clenched, a soft gasp escaping his son. 

The voice continued. 

“ _The time is_ **_now._ ** _The rain has come. Bentu Depurak has come! Rise up, and break your chains! Lukkema!_ **_LUKKEMA!-_ ** _”_

The voice continued, shouting encouragement now, but Taroa did not hear the words anymore; his attention stolen by Hu’lgar as he abruptly disengaged from Giv, elegantly spun on his heel, and slugged Jiron in the face hard enough to drop him. 

All hell broke loose. 

Guards dropped into the arena from the viewing boxes and spilled from the doorways, drawing shock-whips, clearly intending to put down the gladiators. They gave cries of dismay and shock when the gladiators met them head-on, teeth bared and vicious and far outnumbering them. 

Taroa straightened, catching Kellen’s eye. “The children!” he barked. Kellen nodded grimly and began to snatch up the smaller children that had been summoned, the two of them herding them through the chaos and towards a semi-defensible corner of the arena. They were joined by a few other adults, forming a ring of protection around the children. Slaves that stumbled too close to the ring were shoved back out or assisted as needed; Depuran were shown no such mercy. 

One of the teenlings stumbled and fell near him with a cry of pain; a Zygerian made the mistake of attempting to lash at him while within arm’s reach of Taroa. Taroa snarled, reaching out to grab his arm and drag him close. A swift headbut square to the Zygerian’s nose made the slitted eyes roll up and body fall to the ground, limp and lifeless. 

A new wave of forms began to swarm over the balconies of the viewing boxes, the sound of blasterfire joining the fray. Taroa jolted; the Depuran were-?. It took him a moment to realize this new wave wasn’t more Depuran; they were armed and armored beings shooting at the Depuran with deadly accuracy. 

Many of them wore Freedom Marks. 

Taroa didn’t bother to spare the energy for shock, grabbing onto the surge of vicious hope instead and letting it fill him. He barely even thought about it; when one of the armored beings got close, he lifted a hand. 

“BLASTER!” he roared. 

The white armored figure’s helmet swiveled to look at him. In an instant, a blaster was soaring through the air, slapping into his palm. His grin felt like it would split his face. 

Hands moving with the same rote familiarity that they moved on every other weapon that he knew, despite not having ever touched one in his memory, Taroa charged the rifle and brought it to bear. His focus sharpened, and he began to pick off targets. Around him, he heard similar shouts for arms; they were answered, and shortly the air was filled with blasterfire. The children behind him screamed and squealed; he didn’t turn to look at them, keeping his eyes on the chaos, but he did roar, “ _Ade!_ Hit the deck! Cover, cover, cover!” 

He heard Dukkra echoing him, shaky but insistent, and his heart swelled with pride. Leaving the task to his son and praying it was enough to prevent any stray shot from finding them, he focused on the battle. 

As quickly as it had begun, it was over. 

Silence echoed in the arena. All the Depuran lay on the ground, some slaves beside them, but more Depuran than slaves. The armored beings and remaining slaves looked around, evaluating the scene. Taroa exhaled a shaky breath. 

The sudden roar of a jetpack made everyone startle. A dark figure shot out from Depur’s viewing box, and in an instant the figure had dropped to the ground, and the Zygerian bounty hunter with the earrings in his ears and wide tawny eyes was charging at him. 

Taroa barely registered what he was seeing- Zygerian, Depur, _threat_ \- before his blaster rifle was up again, pointed squarely at the Zygerian. He felt his eyes narrow, a snarl of warning on his lips. 

The Zygerian halted, his harsh expression cracking, something devastated spilling out. Taroa froze, confusion bubbling in his gut, but didn’t relax his glare or lower his weapon. 

The Zygerian drew back a step, lowering his gaze and nodding, his face being turned down doing nothing to hide the raw _grief_ rolling off him in waves. “I understand,” he whispered, and Taroa felt his heart stutter in his chest. 

He _knew_ that voice. _Lukkamar._

Before he could react, the jetpack roared again, and the Zygerian was gone, fading form disappearing over the wall, leaving Taroa only able to stare after him, a scream of “ori’vod” trapped in his throat.

The Zygerian’s movement and departure seemed to ignite the rest of the armored beings, suddenly every one of them beginning to attend to wounded, or bark reports and orders into commlinks, a few also igniting jetpacks to move back up to the second level or over the wall. The slaves took their cue from them and began to do the same, Taroa hearing Kellen begin to check over the children and coordinate the remaining gladiators behind him. One of the beings in armor skillfully descended via jetpack from Depur’s viewing box, their armor a vivid kaleidoscope of colors that Taroa couldn’t help but swear seemed familiar somehow. 

The figure landed gracefully in the center of the arena, and stood tall, and when they spoke, their voice boomed. 

“ _I am Boba Fett,_ ” they said, confident and authoritative. “ _Mand’alor the Unfettered._ ” 

Taroa choked on hysterical laughter. Unfettered. _Leia_. Leia and Lukkamar were here. Maybe not his Leia, but a Leia all the same. 

The Mighty One had come with the Storm. 

He stepped forward, drawing the being’s attention, and far more calmly than he felt, he answered. “I am Taroa Tikeri. Grandfather and chntk of the slave quarter.” He inclined his head. “We owe you a debt.” 

The helmet tilted, then the being answered, somehow strangely soft through the vocorder, “ _There is no debt among clan._ ” 

Gloved hands reached up, removing the helmet, and Taroa’s breath caught as he recognized his own eyes. 

The Mand’alor grinned. “Jat’urcir, vod’ika,” he greeted warmly, tucking his helmet under his arm. “How can we help?”


	14. Reunited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Promises once made are kept.

The sun had set and risen again by the time every slave that had called Lieutenant Jundice ‘Master’ was free. 

Pockets of Depuran resistance had to be flushed out from various parts of the house, and it took time to get weapons to the field hands so they could assist in dispatching the Depuran there, but eventually they did. Mand’alor Fett and the Mandalorians with him were just as efficient and ruthless as their reputations claimed, despite the discovery that their blasters were all on stun rather than live blaster bolts; but Layla supposed some of the Depuran surviving was a small price to pay for all of the slaves that had accidentally gotten in the way of a bolt living too. The Mandalorians were also all careful not to directly issue orders to or claim command over any slave. They didn’t even take command over the fighting, letting the gladiators take the lead; really mostly just providing supplies, advice, and containing the captured Depuran, making sure none of them escaped and no alarms outside were raised. Even Mand’alor Fett took a subordinate position to Taroa when they walked together, and didn’t contradict him when he issued instructions contrary to his advice to Kellen and Blenda and Yeoha and the other Amavikkan. It was subtle, but Layla noticed. 

All of them noticed. 

That wasn’t the only thing she noticed, either. The first time she saw a former clone trooper’s helmet, then his eyes when he took it off, she wanted to smack herself. Or maybe dissolve into hysterical laughter. Or maybe just lay down and cry. 

Despite his insistence that he had always been a slave, it had turned out her idle musings that Taroa had been something else once were right. Her husband was a kriffing _Fett clone._ And judging from the way Mand’alor Fett was treating him, not just any Fett clone; a stars-damned displaced Mandalorian princeling. Of kriffin’ course. She had grown up regularly seeing the old GAR propaganda posters from the war; no wonder he had seemed familiar. No wonder Jundice had kept his face covered, and took such strange interest in Taroa in particular. 

Layla didn’t allow herself to focus on that. There was too much to do, and she knew now she did not have the luxury of uncertainty. Instead, she joined Blenda, the other Singers, and the Mandalorian medics in treating wounds and removing slave collars. One of the Mandalorians handed her a pair of metal snips; she gleefully cut away her anklets, and passed them on to her sister concubines, who did the same. The bells had never sounded prettier as they bounced down a flight of stairs and out of her life. 

As they worked, a few bewildered and still uninitiated former slaves were pointed in her direction, saying they had been told to ask Grandmother for a story. She grinned and didn’t pause in her work, and told them the story of Tena, then Taroa. It felt almost sacrilegious to tell them in the open, and she could tell the others felt it too, glancing around warily; she lifted her chin and told the stories insistently loud. It had always been her job to remind the Amavikkan what freedom looked and sounded like outside the stone walls of the house; now was no time to shirk that duty. They were free. They didn’t have to hide the stories anymore. 

By the time the last Depur was hauled away into the custody of the Mandalorians, the last door unlocked, the last collar was pried off, the bomb whisked away by a Mandalorian with an Umakkar in orange boldly painted on one of her armor's shoulders and a medic’s cross in the same color on the other, the remaining pieces given to the former slave to do with as they wished- she knew most of them would be finding their way to the Marukeppu bonfire they were planning for later that night- there were no more uninitiated. Layla leaned back in her chair, wearily satisfied. 

"Layla." 

She turned to look at her husband. His eyes were slightly crinkled, shining with stunned joy, Ebra on his hip and Mitta on Dukkra’s hip at his side, all her children beaming. She smiled back, though she searched Taroa’s face, trying to put her finger on what was different...

She gasped, jumping to her feet. “Tar-!” 

He grinned. 

Layla didn’t hesitate, running to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him firmly. It took them a second to get the angle just right with their conflicting heights, but his free arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her in close, and he kissed back, warm and sweet, and it was perfect. 

Their children giggled at the display, and when they finally broke apart, their foreheads tipping together, she joined them, giggling and not bothering to wipe away her tears. Like her wedding, this deserved the blessing of her water. “I knew you were handsome under there.” 

His smile quirked, turning faintly roguish, and oh _stars_ there was a look that would have made a younger her blush and do something stupid. “Good genetics, apparently.” 

Layla threw her head back and laughed, joy bubbling up from her belly to spill out of her, feeling almost drunk with it. Taroa tucked his face into her neck, and she could feel his grin against her skin, and her heart soared. 

A throat clearing nearby turned their attention outwards again, Layla turning to find one of the Mandalorian medics; a former clone trooper judging by his armor. He removed his helmet one handed, revealing a face just like Taroa’s, but about five years younger, with sharper cheekbones, blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a shy smile, confirming her suspicion. Fek, it was going to take a while to get used to such similar faces. 

“Sorry, don’t mean to interrupt,” he murmured almost bashfully. 

“No trouble,” Taroa chuckled, lifting his head from her neck, but not removing his arm from her waist. She preened a little, keeping her own arms around him. Ebra patted her arm where it rested near his face, and she shifted to include him in the circle of her arms absently. He giggled and cuddled into her shoulder. “What can we do for you?” 

The medic’s bashful smile became a little less shy. “I’m Hypo,” he introduced himself. “And I think it’s what I can do for _you._ Taroa, right?” 

Layla blinked, surprised. Taroa stiffened a little, obviously also surprised, but he nodded. 

“Not to be insensitive,” Hypo continued, stepping closer and lowering his voice slightly, “but you were mindwiped, right?” 

“Yes,” Taroa answered suspiciously. Layla felt herself start to tense. What in the galaxy-?

Hypo noticed, holding his hands up placatingly. “Sorry, don’t mean to worry you. I just wanted to know if you might like some assistance figuring out who you were before, and if we might be able to get your memories back.” 

Layla froze. Taroa went stiff under her hands. 

“W-what?” Taroa breathed. 

Hypo grinned boyishly. “We all keep pretty close tabs on each other, you know, and we have an idea who you might be, but to be honest, there’s lots of people just as anxious as you to _know._ You know?” He shrugged. 

She met Taroa’s wide eyes. He looked like he had just been punched in the face and was still seeing stars.

Giving him a minute to process, she turned back to Hypo and demanded on his behalf, “How can you tell? Aren’t you clones?” 

Hypo gamely turned his attention to her, explaining, “Well, yeah, but we’ve still got ways to tell each other apart. There’s a couple tests I can run.” 

“Like what?” 

He reached for his belt pouch, pulling out a small scanner. “Well the easiest is just to scan his arm. I think he’s too young to have a chip, but he might have chosen to have one implanted anyway. It’s the first thing we should check.” 

“Which arm?” Taroa asked softly. Hypo refocused on him. 

“Right forearm,” he answered, speaking gently, like Taroa was a skittish animal. “Just hold your arm out, like this.” He held his own arm out, inner wrist up. Slowly, Taroa uncurled his arm from around her waist, holding it out to the medic. “Thank you. Hold there.” Slowly, Hypo began to move the scanner down the length of Taroa’s forearm, a fan of red light sweeping over his skin. 

“What if Bu doesn’t have a chip thingy?” Dukkra dared to ask curiously as the medic scanned, he and Mitta crowding closer to watch. Hypo shrugged, not pausing. 

“Well if he doesn’t, we’ll check his teeth next to compare them to dental records- ah!” The scanner beeped, the light turning green. He grinned triumphantly. “No need. You do have a chip!” He pressed a few buttons on the scanner’s display, eyes flicking over the information. 

Layla felt like her heart would beat right out of her chest. She could feel Taroa’s was just as fast. 

Finally, Hypo looked up, grin unwavering, and held out his hand. “Jat’urcir, Tor Alverd.” 

Taroa exhaled his held breath in a sharp burst. Layla tightened her arms around him. Her husband grasped Hypo’s forearm in some familiar handshake, Hypo squeezing him back. “Tor Alverd,” he whispered, testing the name. 

“Don’t worry if it doesn’t feel right, yet,” Hypo chuckled. “We’ll get you hooked up with a proper therapist after we have a mind healer look at getting your memories back. Here,” he shrugged off his backpack, flipping it open and rummaging through to pull out a datapadd. He typed on it a bit, then held it out to them. “Your file. Take all the time you need to look it over.” 

Taroa’s hand shook as he took it. 

Hypo quietly excused himself; Layla barely noticed him leaving, all her attention on her husband again. Taroa was staring at the datapadd with wide eyes. Had his face always been this expressive under the mask? He looked so... vulnerable. Layla swallowed, then softly spoke. “Hey.” 

Taroa tore his eyes away from it, gaze snapping to her. She smiled as reassuringly as she could. “You’re my husband. The father of our children. Whatever’s on that ‘padd won’t change that.” Whatever his _before_ had been, she was certain of that much. 

At least she hoped so. _I think I might have had a child_ echoed in her mind. She shoved it away. 

He swallowed thickly, then his face relaxed, eyes going soft with gratitude. His kissed her, and she kissed back with a little hum. When he pulled back, he held up the pad and croaked out, “I- I’ve got to-” 

“I understand,” she murmured back, taking Ebra from him and letting him go. Dukkra drifted to her side, and she hugged his head to her side. “Go.” With a last jerky nod, he turned and disappeared. 

“Bu gon be ok, Mami?” Mitta asked plaintively, peeking out from where she was nearly hidden in her draping sleeve. Layla smiled down at her, moving her hand from her son to gently run her fingers through her daughter’s curls instead. 

“I hope so, baby.” 

  
  
  


By mutual agreement, an out-of rotation field- basically a big dirt patch, really- was picked for the Marukeppu bonfire. In the twilight, it roared as it fed on their former Depur’s furniture and grew. Layla breathed deep, wiggling her bare toes in the dirt, relishing the open sky over her and the sound of pumping music from a ‘mitter for the first time in nearly a decade- the first time ever, for her children. For many of the children here, actually. She grinned as she watched a pack of them, including her own children, weave through the crowd, running around and whooping and hollering excitedly like any other child. The Mandalorians chuckled and murmured to each other about something called shereshoy as the pack ran past. 

Taroa’s arm slid around her waist. He had been subdued since he returned, without the datapadd this time, but even he still smiled softly at the children’s antics. Layla sighed and leaned against him, listening to the joyous murmur of voices surrounding her, laughing and telling stories and celebrating, acting as counterpoint to the music. Food was beginning to be passed around, easily shared finger foods, accompanied with drinks of all kinds, including flasks of tzai she and Blenda had made. Periodically, someone would throw something on the fire; sometimes just more fuel, but sometimes small things that they threw in with vicious satisfaction or relief. Layla didn’t look at what they gave to the fire; that was their secret to keep. 

She rested her hand on her belly. She was only about five months pregnant, but she could swear the baby felt excited too. She grinned. Her child would be born free; she couldn’t be happier. 

They all looked up when the whine of an approaching spacecraft grew into a roar. Anxious tension was released when the vessel’s markings became visible, the small shuttle bearing the same white symbols as the rest of the craft the Mandalorians had landed. Once it was obvious the shuttle was not hostile, most of them turned back to the party, but Layla continued to watch the landing curiously. 

The ramp lowered, and a small form darted down it, followed closely by several more. Layla gasped. 

“AMAKUUNA!” Taroa roared, tearing from her side and running to meet their daughter. Layla was right behind him. 

“BU! MAMI!” she squealed excitedly, giggling happily as Taroa swept her up into a hug. 

Layla felt tears roll down her face as she cupped Luna’s face, showering it with little kisses. “My baby, my baby,” she sobbed, aware of the rest of her children flocking around her skirts, enthusiastically greeting their sister too. Around them, the happy hubbub of similar reunions only grew as more and more children, “victims” of the koldep flu, emerged from the vessel. It wasn’t all of them, Layla could tell that much, but even _this_ many... 

“Mami, Mami,” Luna squealed happily, her eyes sparkling with wonder as she began to babble, “I went so far! We flew inna ships an’ hid real good an’ I met Turu and we’re best frein’s now and we saw so many things! Sometimes it was scary, but it was so fun, too! Then I foun’ Bu’s brothers, an’ I met Ba’vu Ruus and Ba’vu Up an’ Ba’vu Dex an’ Ba’vu Ar-roo an’ Gramma Bali!” 

Layla’s breath caught in her throat. “W-what?” 

Luna nodded enthusiastically, twisting in Taroa’s arms to look up at the top of the ramp. Layla followed her gaze. 

There she stood. Steadfast and solid, her hair more white than silver now, the lines in her face deeper. Her neck was free of a collar, wearing homespun clothes Layla had never seen her in before, her eyes clearer than they had been before. She looked out over the crowd, which had fallen silent as they noticed her in turn, staring up at her. She looked lost. 

“Amu,” Taroa breathed. 

Luna squirmed, prompting Taroa to let her down, their daughter beaming as she darted up to the ship, a little dusty toned Togruta joining her at the foot of the ramp and the two running up hand in hand. Bali smiled down at the pair, letting them take her hands and lead her carefully down the ramp. Layla drifted forward, taking Taroa’s hand in hers and leading her dazed husband with her. 

They met at the foot of the ramp. Bali met her eyes, and Layla bit her lip against a sob. Or laughter, she wasn’t sure which anymore. 

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, and Layla felt her gut wrench to hear her mother sound so unsure. “The little ones, they tell me I was the Grandmother here once, but I...” she shook her head. “I don’t remember.” 

Layla smiled. “We’ll remind you.” Straightening and raising her voice, so she could be heard, she took a deep breath. “Listen, Amavikkan. Listen, and Layla, daughter of Grandmother Bali, will tell a story.” Bali blinked, surprised, but curious. Layla felt her grin widen. 

“Once, there was a house, ruled by a cruel and terrible Depur. This Depur stole all from his slaves; their freedom, their japor, their names, their hope, their past. Even, sometimes, their faces. But the Amavikkan had a secret.” 

She turned to face the crowd, beaming. “What Depur didn’t know, is even if you steal from the mind, the desert and the truth will always be in our bones. They could not take Ar-Amu from our hearts, Ekkereth from our faces, the desert from our bones and the dragons from our skins! Couldn’t take that we knew we were born to breathe free. We knew one day, Ar-Amu would weep, and we would be gathered together again, and we would see each other again. We remembered in our hearts and with our lips!” 

“We remembered,” the crowd replied, some in a murmur, some in a shout. Hands made the gesture of remembrance, Layla doing the same, then continuing. 

“And we were taught so by our Grandmother.” 

She turned back, grinning at Bali. Bali stared back with startled eyes, and Layla couldn’t hold back a giggle this time. “Grandmother had her past stolen, but she remembered the wisdom of the Mother and the Trickster. She found a son,” Layla laid her hand on Taroa’s shoulder, “and taught him the ancient ways and gave the nameless warrior a name. She told the stories, and guided the slave quarter, was grandmother, mother, sister to all. Then her son was given a stubborn, headstrong freeborn to be his woman.” She blushed sheepishly. “She taught her the stories and the dances and the sigils, taught her the wisdom, how to survive as a slave. Taught her to make tzai, and called her daughter. But the girl was foolish, and in her stubbornness, caused Depur to send her mother away.” She broke Bali’s gaze, eyes dropping to the ground in shame, but she didn’t stop. 

“The Grandmother was taken away, sold on, and had her past stolen again. But the slave quarter remembered, and in our memory, she was eternal. For many years, we grieved. Then the day for Bentu Depurak came. And on that day, Ar-Amu did not just send rain; she sent a hurricane, sent warriors from the stars. The Mother’s promise was fulfilled, and just like she promised, the Anumakkar brought with them the Amavikkan’s lost children, and their lost Grandmother, reuniting them. Grandmother returned to the house of Depur, so her people could remind her, as she had reminded them. So we return her to Ar-Amu, and her people.” 

Layla forced herself to look up, forced herself to meet Bali’s eyes, and speak firmly. “I am Layla Tikeri, and I name you Bali Flameweaver, my mother.” 

Taroa, unsurprisingly, was the next to speak, his voice shockingly steady. “I am Taroa Tikeri, and I name you Bali Flameweaver, my mother.” 

“I am Blenda, ” Layla looked to her sister with surprise, finding Blenda was beaming through her own tears. “And I name you Bali, my teacher.” 

“I am Hora, and I name you Bali, my friend.” 

“I am Jasper, and I name you Bali, my grandmother.” 

“I am-” 

On and on the introductions went, the ceremony of return unfolding. Layla felt her tears begin to flow again, but didn’t bother to stem them. She wasn’t the only one. Gently, she took Bali’s hand, and Taroa took her other; Luna and the Togruta child, Turu she guessed, gave their places up gracefully and took each other’s hands again instead, giggling and leading the way into the crowd, which parted for them respectfully. She and Taroa led Bali forward, the introductions continuing to flow, seeming unending, but finally, every Amavikkan that had known her before had claimed their tie to her, and they stood beside the Marukeppu bonfire, surrounded by their community. 

Bali looked around with wide eyes. When she met Layla’s eyes, Layla smiled. She could see Taroa squeezing her hand hard enough to turn the knuckles white. 

Finally, she took a shuddering breath. “I am Bali Flameweaver. Mother of Taroa and Layla. Friend of Hora, Amina and others. Teacher of many. Grandmother of all the slave quarter.” 

Taroa nodded, solemnly reaching into his pocket and pulling something out, holding it out to Layla. Confused, Layla took it; and burst into laughter when she saw what it was. 

She grinned as she carefully wrapped the half-finished jerba ribbon around a confused Bali’s wrist, tying it securely. Bali frowned at it. “What is this?” she asked. 

“You began it, the day you were taken,” Layla whispered. “And now, in a year’s time, you will finish it, surrounded by your community, like it’s supposed to be.” 

Bali startled, looking at the ribbon with new understanding, then smiled. A tiny, secret smile. 

“So I will.” 

Layla grinned as she watched her husband embrace their mother, lifted her daughter into her arms, and felt her sister’s arm slide around her shoulders, the rest of her children gathered around her. For the first time, her family was together, and her heart soared. 

  
  
  
  
  


The fire was burned down to embers and the moon beginning to set when Taroa took her hand and guided her away from their sleeping family. Only Blenda stirred, but merely smiled and closed her eyes again when she saw what they were doing, pulling the twins closer. 

Hand in hand, in silence, she walked with her husband towards the horizon and the edge of the property, until finally, they were walking among the trees. 

Layla breathed in the scent of the loam, admired the moonlight filtering through the branches. It was as beautiful as she had hoped. 

They found a spot with an exposed cradle of tree roots, settling upon the natural bench curled together. Taroa brought out a flask of tzai, and they passed it between them, listening to the night creatures. 

Finally, Taroa spoke in a hushed whisper. “My name was Tor Alverd.” 

Layla looked at him, but his eyes were closed. He continued. “I was decanted twenty five years ago, the sixth of Clone Trooper batch number four hundred and sixty seven, eighty ninth generation, in Aloriya Cloning Center, on Cin Vehtin. A planet orbiting a star called ENT463. I was officially adopted along with another of my batch three days after my decanting, and relocated to Di’base, still on Cin Vehtin, where I was raised.” Shakily, he inhaled, and Layla squeezed his hand. He squeezed back, took another swig, and continued. “I... I am the son of Gree and Cody Alverd. Both were Commanders of the GAR, decorated war heroes, and both are still living. I am the elder brother of Mira Alverd, twin of Tor Alverd, and younger brother of Arreru Alverd and Boba Fett.” 

Layla had suspected, but still felt her breath catch. They had already met one of his elder brothers, and he was the stars-damned _Mand’alor_. Her brother in law was a King! She licked her lips. “Was he Lukkamar?” 

Taroa shook his head. “Leia.” His throat worked, and he eventually choked out, “I met Lukkamar on the battlefield, too.” 

She frowned, but before she could ask, Taroa plowed ahead. “I graduated from Di’base Educational Facility with the rest of my class, and received honors as the third ranked man in my entire class in physics and mathematics. I played a game called bolo ball, and was co-captain of my team. I... I was going to study theoretical astrophysics. Maybe be an instructor myself someday. But I decided to do a tour with Diamond’s Men, the Anumakkar, first. Apparently it's traditional.” 

Finally, his eyes opened, and met hers. Tears and grief glistened wetly in his eyes. “My twin came with me, and Arreru came to watch our backs. They completed their tour, twelve years ago. I didn’t.” 

Layla’s breath caught. Twelve _years._ “What happened?” 

He shrugged. “The official report states I went MIA- missing- during a patrol on a moon suspected of hosting slaver activity. It was concluded I most likely fell victim to a predator after official searches turned up no remains.” 

She had listened to her husband tell stories long enough to hear a dramatic pause. She prompted him obligingly. “And unofficially?” 

His eyes closed again, voice going hoarse. “According to my brother,” he whispered, “Arreru never forgave himself.” He took another shuddering breath, and Layla wrapped her arms around him, pulling him in to bury his face in her neck. He hugged her back, crushing her to his chest. His next words were choked out against her skin. “He’s been looking for me, all this time. He never gave up. I-I was right, all along. My brothers were coming for me. Leia and Lukkamar _came_ , but we can- what we _lost_ \- I-I can’t...” 

“Shh,” Layla cooed, gently stroking his hair. “I know.”

Twelve years, endless heartbreak and guilt, could never be taken back. 


	15. Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey to Cin Vehtin was not one Layla Tikeri would soon forget.

If Layla had thought being free would be more relaxed than being a slave, she would have found herself sorely mistaken. 

As one of the defacto leaders of the slave quarter, she found herself busier than ever. Mostly she was accompanying Taroa in talks with Mand’alor Fett, Marshal Commander Diamond, and Commander Mae- a stern, red haired, round faced woman who was apparently Commander Diamond’s second in command and heir apparent- then passing on the knowledge and organizing their people. It turned out that Diamond’s men did this sort of thing professionally, and already had systems in place to get them all somewhere safe so they could recuperate and decide what to do next; it was only a question of transportation and what they wanted to do with the plantation, if anything. The vessel that had brought the strike force, the _Ramikadyc,_ was Fett’s personal vessel and was relatively small, only able to take about 20 passengers at best. So they waited for a transport vessel, and in the meantime, busily dismantled the house for anything of value, the former slaves packing up everything they wished to take with them to freedom. Intrigued by the idea of snippets, many took small pieces of wood and stone from the grounds, and Taroa busied himself teaching how to carve. Layla made sure, with Bali and Blenda’s help, every single person that wanted one and didn’t have one already had a jerba cord bracelet or anklet. As they worked together, for themselves for the first time, stories were told, bonds discovered and affirmed, futures eagerly speculated. Layla proudly confirmed six different marriages. 

It was during one of the talks, Dukkra and Luna having accompanied her and Taroa that day, that Dukkra piped up with a serious tone and asked the three Anumakkar, “What about the other slaves?” 

Diamond frowned, but answered just as seriously. “Which other slaves?” 

“Zygerria is an Empire, right?” Dukkra explained. “An Empire of Depur.” 

Mae nodded, just as serious as her father. “That’s right.” 

“So who is gonna save their slaves? We’ve gotta help them too, right?” Dukkra demanded, fire in his eyes. Layla smiled, unbearably proud of her son. Dukkra ba dukkra, as promised. 

A similar pride lit up the three armored being’s eyes, fond grins and chuckles spilling from their mouths. Fett reached out, hooking an arm around Dukkra’s neck and pulling him to his side to ruffle his hair fondly. “Mandokarla! All in due time, vod’ad.” 

Dukkra pouted up at his uncle, demanding, “I wanna help!” 

“Grow up a little first, Kyr’ika,” Diamond chuckled, shaking his head. “And if we’re not done yet by the time you’re old enough, we will gladly welcome your help.” 

Dukkra grumbled reluctantly, but nodded. “Ok. When I’m grown up.” 

Mae shook her head, leaning closer to Layla to murmur, "Don't worry, every youngling his age says that. He'll probably grow out of it." 

Layla just smiled, glancing at her daughter, who had yet to stop gushing about the ships she had seen during her months away at every opportunity. "You know, I don't think he will."

Three days after the Marukeppu celebration, the _Skywalker’s Justice_ broke orbit around the Zygerian settlement of Haraji, leaving only the smoking remains of what had once been Lieutenant Jundice’s palace and barren fields. If anyone was to investigate the rubble, well, Layla took a smug satisfaction in the fact that if they found an apartment overlooking the small courtyard, they would find charred rooms, and a perfect Kol-Depuan seared into the floor, but nothing else.

A statement, and a promise. 

Layla Tikeri was still her mother’s daughter, after all. 

  
  
  


It was aboard the _Skywalker’s Justice_ that she met Taroa’s family for the first time. 

They had the sense to wait until everyone had settled somewhat for the two-week journey to Cin Vehtin. Their family- herself, Taroa, their children, Blenda and Bali- had been given a cabin with several stacked berths and a small table that popped up out of the floor with the push of a button, but little else. It wasn't a cruise ship, but she was able to lock and unlock the door at her whim and there was a ‘mitter, so it was good enough for Layla. Despite the cramped quarters, the children excitedly chattered, and their excitement was infectious. Layla couldn’t stop grinning, giggling every time Taroa stole a kiss from her, which was often. It seemed like her husband was determined to make up for eight years of missed kisses as soon as humanly possible. Layla couldn’t find it in herself to mind even a little bit. 

Diamond’s Men were excellent hosts. Just like Mand’alor Fett had said, the crew were clearly used to accommodating skittish former slaves like them. It helped that many of the non-clone members of the crew were former slaves and Amavikkan themselves, including the Captain of the _Justice._ Captain Amille was a wiry human woman with a steely gaze, a ramrod straight spine, a strangely sweet voice, and a leia tattooed on her hand. When she greeted their community upon boarding, she addressed them in Amatakka, obligingly repeating herself in Basic when asked, and made it clear that the entire section of the vessel that had been appointed to them was their sovereign space. None of the crew would venture into it unless invited or in an emergency, but they were free to roam and explore as they liked. Layla liked her immediately. 

The _Justice_ was a retrofitted battle cruiser, so their section was nearly the size of a small town, and included not only a few hundred living quarters of various sizes, but also a mess hall, a small infirmary, a gym, a moderately sized hangar, and a few other amenities; a good thing, since there were nearly two hundred of them in their community. Even with the generous quarters, they were rather cozy; but that was partly from choice. With nothing really to do, the mess hall in that section became a kind of communal gathering space, like the bath-house had once been for the house slaves. Practically all hours of every day the hall and attached kitchen were bustling with activity; food, drink, and talk flowing equally freely. Layla made a point of keeping a ‘mitter going at all times, and happily sang along with what few songs she knew, grumbling good naturedly about the “newfangled stuff” the rest of the time to her family's amusement.

It didn’t take long for the crew to start intermixing with them, starting with the ones that had been part of the strike team, since they were already familiar. Many of her people had even begun halting, tentative friendships with members of Diamond’s Men while on planet, and if she wasn’t imagining things, one or two were trending more towards cautious flirting rather than friendship. Layla was delighted it was continuing, and made a point of being supportive. Nothing seemed coerced, but she also made sure Taroa kept an eye out anyway. 

Just in case. 

The intermingling began with just the strike team, but didn’t stay that way. After the strike team, members of the crew of the _Justice_ began to be seen more and more regularly, too, then their families on board. She even met the beings Luna called ‘Ba’vu Ruus’ and ‘Ba’vu Up’, a Twi’lek and Fett clone pair of Vode’ade, and had a chance to thank the pair for caring for her daughter. It turned out Fett clones were a friendly bunch, and their adopted brothers and children- apparently collectively called the Vode’ade- were the same. This was most apparent with the children; the Vode'ade children wasted no time in taking over the nearly unused gym and showing their 'cousins' how to play, turning the obstacle course into a jungle gym and the open space into a playground. Those friendships Layla _definitely_ encouraged. 

Layla supposed she shouldn’t be surprised by their collective casual familiarity, considering her husband’s steadfast opinions on brotherhood and inclusion, and tendency to do the same. She had often wondered where those convictions came from, especially when the other slaves would occasionally shoot him baffled looks after he spouted something about being a brother to all, even Bali, but apparently all clones thought that way. Her husband might have forgotten his teachers, but he obviously hadn’t forgotten the lessons his people taught him. The thought was somehow comforting. 

Four days into the journey, Layla never wanted to hear the title ‘Grandmother’ directed at her ever again. 

On the plantation, in Depur's house, she had played the role only one day a week, with only occasional additional short interludes; the rest of the time she had been occupied with being a wife and mother, sequestered from the rest of the Amavikkan in Taroa's apartment. It was a brutal transition to abruptly be Grandmother all the time, especially Grandmother to a community that was grappling with freedom for the first time in their memory. She knew Bali was just as capable of filling the role as she, but eight years of habit and familiarity on both her and the community’s part was hard to overcome; it would take time for Bali to fully reclaim that role. Her husband, on the other hand, seemed to slide into full-time leadership like a well-worn glove, which only served to frustrate her further. She tried to make sure she didn't take it out on her people, but she knew they were beginning to notice. Some easily accepted the excuse that her pregnancy was making her testy, but not all. 

Her husband and sister and mother were not so easily fooled. They were also just as well versed in taking care of her as she was in taking care of them. 

That was how, on the fourth day of their journey to Cin Vehtin, Layla found herself on a picnic in a- nearly- deserted hangar bay, just her and her family. The bay only held one small craft, which was being worked on by a small maintainence team, but they kept to themselves over on the other side of the hangar, unobtrusive. The eight of them lounged on cushions and a blanket Taroa had gotten his hands on somehow, talking and laughing about nothing, a ‘mitter playing softly, as they shared a picnic lunch Blenda had prepared and watched hyperspace stream past just outside the ray-shielded bay. She had to admit it was a hell of a view. 

As she curled around her husband, giggling with her sister and watching her children gawk and chatter excitedly at each other about the bright streaks outside, Layla felt content. She hadn’t realized just how much she needed a bit of time away and a good distraction. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” 

She turned, startled at the voice, finding Mand’alor Fett standing there, a few paces away. It was the first time they had seen him since boarding the _Justice_ ; Layla had wondered where he had gotten to. His arm was around a beautiful dark haired Kiffar woman with dark red lines tattooed on her cheeks and a warm smile. It had been the woman who had spoken. 

“Yeah!” Luna gushed without hesitation, her eyes bright, and not just from reflecting hyperspace, braver than her siblings since her return. 

“Who are you?” Dukkra asked, his brows furrowed a bit, drifting closer to his younger siblings and putting a protective hand on Mitta’s shoulder, both the twins drifting closer to him out of habit. 

The woman’s smile grew, not seeming to take offense at their wariness. “I am Sintas Vel,” she introduced herself. “But considering the circumstances, I think you can call me Auntie Sin.” 

Luna exchanged stunned looks with her siblings. “We have a auntie?” she gasped. 

“And just what am I?” Blenda grumbled under her breath. Layla snorted behind her hand. 

“Actually,” Fett chuckled, a bit of mischievous humor in his eyes making the resemblance between him and Taroa so much stronger, “You have _seven._ ” His thumb jerked over his shoulder, and Layla looked. Taroa went tense under her. 

A little further on, a clump of beings stood. Two older clones, looking about Diamond’s age, both with white hair and creased faces; a pair of clones about Taroa’s age, one of them looking so hopeful and brokenhearted that Layla couldn’t help but wince in sympathy; a young woman with dark olive green skin and short curly black hair, standing beside a scarlet skinned man; and two girls, clearly the children of the olive woman and red man judging from their interestingly mottled coloring, the older one about Luna’s age, the younger a little older than the twins. 

Taroa’s _before_ , she suddenly realized with a wrench to her gut. 

For a long moment, the two groups regarded each other, tension in the air, until one of the mottled girls sighed. “It’s ok,” she grumbled, looking right at Taroa, who looked as lost as Bali had at the top of the shuttle ramp. “I dunno you either.” 

Just like that, the tension burst, all of them erupting into laughter. Layla looked down at her husband, finding him grinning as he laughed, only a little tension remaining in his shoulders. He met her eyes, flashing her a reassuring smile, and gently eased her off his lap so he could stand. He looked right at the girls, and made a small beckoning gesture. 

Obligingly, the two girls trotted over. When they were close enough, Taroa held out his hand, and said seriously, "Taroa Tikeri. Once Tor Alverd." 

The elder one nodded seriously, clasping Taroa's forearm in the familiar greeting that seemed to be standard here. "Ordi Alverd," she introduced herself, her Basic weirdly clipped and accented. "This my vod'ika, Hal. Mir'Bu said Tor Alverd was her ori'vod." 

"Maybe once," Taroa agreed simply. “But it’s been a long time, and a lot has happened. I don’t know any of them anymore.” 

The broken-hearted looking clone flinched, making a wounded noise. Neither Taroa nor the girls looked at him, but the white haired clone with the receding hairline beside him placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, his own eyes pinched. 

Little Ordi, on the other hand, merely nodded. "Mir'Bu say kami'uun re-con-itioned you, so you no 'member." 

Layla frowned at the unfamiliar term, but Taroa nodded in agreement, apparently understanding. "Yes." 

The younger one, Hal, piped up then in a small voice. “New friends?” 

Taroa startled and blinked. After a moment, a smile slowly spread over his face and he nodded. “Yeah. That’s a good place to start.” Finally, he looked at the group of strangers, making it clear he was addressing them too. “As new friends.” 

“I like new friens!” Luna butted in, peeling herself away from her siblings to come to her father’s side and grin at her- apparently- cousins. “I’m Luna! We can’t be best friens, though, ‘cause Turu’s my best frein.” 

“That’s ok,” Ordi shrugged. “Veery is already my best friend.” 

“I no got a bes’ friend,” Hal muttered, pouting. 

Layla giggled, exchanging amused glances with Blenda as Dukkra and the twins moved to join their sister, introducing themselves to their cousins too. It was stilted, awkward, even the young ones picking up on the lingering tension in the room, the eyes on her husband, his old family still uncertain even with Taroa’s subtle invitation. 

Making a decision, Layla carefully stood, wincing when the baby shifted and absently rubbing the bump as she moved to join her husband. “Duke,” she called. 

“Dukk _ra_ , Mami,” her eldest huffed, frowning up at her. He had been insisting on using his True Name ever since he realized they were free, and insistently corrected her every time she forgot. Layla smiled, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. 

“Sorry, sorry baby. Dukk _ra_ , run over to the mess and get enough cups for everybody. And some more tea supplies. Luna, help your brother.” Both her children nodded, obediently running off. Linking her arm with Taroa’s, she offered her nieces a warm smile, and then resolutely marched over to the group of uncertain adults, dragging Taroa along. 

“Hiya,” she greeted them, friendly. “Excuse my husband, he’s too used to being all aloof and mysterious. He doesn’t know how to be direct anymore.” She rolled her eyes fondly, encouraged when the Alverds relaxed a little more, small smiles appearing on a few faces, particularly the green woman’s. “I’m Layla Tikeri, Taroa’s wife. You must be his parents?” she looked right at the two white-haired clones. 

The one with the full head of neatly cropped hair and- now that she was close enough to make it out- faded scar curling around his left eye blinked, then smiled, gratitude shining in his eyes, his face going warm and grandfatherly. 

“Once,” he replied, echoing Taroa’s earlier sentiment. “Cody Alverd,” he introduced himself simply. His arm went around the waist of the clone with the receding hairline, tugging him close. Layla blinked; Taroa often did something similar to her. Before she could question it, though, Cody continued, “My riduur, Gree.” 

“Well met,” she hummed. Leaning forward, playfully conspiratorial, she stage whispered, “Tell me, has he always been awful about burying his head in books and then not shutting up about them?” 

“Hey!” her husband huffed. 

The green woman burst into laughter, her muddy hazel eyes sparkling. “Oh, I like her!” she giggled. Stepping closer, she answered, “Yes, he’s always been a bookworm. Even worse than me! I’m Mira.” She held out her hand. 

“Layla,” she replied, gripping Mira’s arm in the familiar greeting Taroa did, and just like that, introductions were flowing. By the time Dukkra and Luna returned with cups, pitchers of hot water and warm milk, and the ingredients for tzai, they had already settled back in their picnic spot, Bali and Blenda introduced as her sister and mother, all of them chatting amiably. 

Layla carefully mixed a fresh pitcher of tzai, making no effort to hide the process. It wasn’t the same as deliberately teaching them, but it was too early for that, and it felt wrong to hide it too; she thought it was a good compromise. Most of her new family didn’t seem to notice, but Fett- Boba now, she supposed- and Tal both frowned thoughtfully at her. She merely smiled enigmatically and handed out cups, never pausing in swapping pregnancy stories with Mira. 

While the adults warily danced around the Wookie in the room, her children, bless the bluntness of kids, had no compunctions about asking after their father’s mysterious past once they realized just who these people were to him. It took reassurance from Taroa that it didn’t bother him, and he was curious too, but eventually they pulled out holos and a box. The box was full of items; a datapadd of books, a battered helmet with the visor outlined in soft orange and a dark green triangle on the forehead, a set of small jeweler’s tools, and several smaller boxes. Taroa touched one of the boxes, shooting an inquisitive look at his old family. 

Cody smiled tightly. “Tor's treasures.” Quickly, like it was painful to touch and he wanted it over with as soon as possible, Cody picked one up, and handed it to Taroa. Carefully, he opened it; Layla gasped. 

Inside, carefully nestled in a bit of dark velvet, was an egg shaped stone. Most of it was crystal clear, but swirling inside, like a bit of the galaxy trapped in amber, darker color swirled and flecks of brighter color sparkled. 

Boba chuckled, his eyes pained but smile fond. “It was Tor's favorite hobby. He... _you_ loved finding little useless things in the junk shops that, as you said, ‘just needed a little fixing’, and fix them up like new. Better, in some cases. Made them beautiful.” 

Each box held something different. A little model speeder, sparkling with gold racing stripes, a small statue, a collection of colorful marbles, a single intricately wrought earring. Like Boba had said, they were little things, useless things, but beautiful things. Taroa looked at each one, but didn’t touch it or remove it from its box, carefully packing them away again. 

They showed them the holos, telling the stories that went with them; snapshots of childhood, of growing, of him with his family and friends. Naturally, the children’s favorite was the footage, distant and shaky, of two figures in plain white armor, clutching tightly to the backs of some kind of massive monochromed flying lizards. 

“You rode a dragon,” Dukkra breathed, his eyes wide moons of awe like his siblings’.

“Damn near killed the both of you for that stunt,” Cody grumbled, only a hint of proud fondness in his eyes. “But it did earn you your paint.” 

Her own favorite was the last entry, another bit of footage. It wasn’t very exciting; just him, and another clone identified as Tal, side by side in armor. They didn’t talk about anything terribly interesting, and Tal dominated the message, but Taroa didn’t seem to mind. Apparently it was just a short check-in message sent to their parents; they were settling in well, they were clicking with their new squad, their brother was looking out for them, they were getting enough rest and eating, though the kaf on board sucked. 

Layla stared at the footage of her husband as a young man, smiling as he mentioned they were going on their first mission tomorrow, no idea who he would become. She glanced at her husband; judging from the way his eyes softened, she thought it might have been his favorite too. 

  
  
  


After that, they started seeing the Alverd clan nearly every day. Cody, Gree, Mira, and Mira’s children were the most common; she, Mira, and Blenda struck up a firm friendship, echoing the friendship formed between her children and Mira’s, the small ragtag gang often in each other’s company now. Likewise, Cody and Gree were often found in Bali’s company, gossiping with the old mother hens. Boba and his wife, Sintas, came around more sparingly, kept busy by their business- seemed there was no rest for Mand’alors or their wives- as did Mira’s husband, Jacin. Tal and his boyfriend, Yvonne, were seen the least; she couldn’t quite blame them. Tal still occasionally looked like he wanted to burst into tears when Taroa said some things, and Yvonne was practically attached to his hip. Layla still remembered how Blenda had been when she had gotten a glimpse of Vina after Vina had been sold on; she wasn’t surprised her husband’s former closest brother found it difficult to be around him for long periods. She almost forgot Taroa had mentioned one more brother that she hadn’t seen yet. 

Her husband certainly didn’t, of course. 

Neither did his older brother. They were only three days out from Cin Vehtin when Boba appeared in the mess hall during breakfast, a disgruntled look on his face. Without preamble, he announced, “He’s still being an atin’la utreekov. Here.” He dropped a small item into Taroa’s hand. “I managed to slip a tracker onto his belt. I doubt wherever he’s holing up he’s not taking his armor with.” 

Luna frowned, piping up loudly, “What’s a- ?” 

“Ask your Bu,” Boba quickly deflected. Layla frowned. 

“What are you two talking about?” she demanded. 

Taroa frowned, considering the small device in his hand. “Lukkamar.” 

_Oh._ “He’s here?” she questioned more delicately. 

He nodded. “He’s here. But he’s avoiding me.” 

“Not just you,” Boba grunted as he settled on the bench across from Taroa, the disgruntlement deepening on his face even as he patted Mitta’s head fondly and allowed her to climb into his lap, her younger daughter fascinated with his brightly colored armor. “First time in twelve years the big-eared di’kut’s been in the same system as the rest of us for longer than forty-eight hours, and he’s barely said ten words to any of his aliit. Our Buire are practically beside themselves.” 

Layla felt her own frown deepen. Now that she was listening for it, she could hear the worry and hurt in the Mand’alor’s voice. Her husband obviously heard it too, glancing up from the item in his hand and looking at his elder brother instead with a small frown of his own. “Why?” she asked. 

Boba answered in a huff. “He’s self-flagellating still. He thinks Tor-roa- ” Layla noticed his quick recovery but decided not to mention it, “- hates him because Taroa pointed a blaster at him and won’t hear a thing about mind-wipes.” 

Oh. She had to admit, she was curious why Taroa would have threatened his beloved brother, but it was hardly important. Layla nodded slightly and stood, catching the attention of her husband. “Breakfast can wait,” she declared quietly to him, holding out her hand. “Let’s go get your brother.” 

Taroa blinked, processing for a moment, before a smile spread across his face. He took her hand and stood. Layla smiled. “Kids, mind your aunt and uncle.” 

“Ok, Mami,” Dukkra replied for them, and they left the mess. The little device turned out to be some kind of receiver that Taroa plugged into a datapadd, causing a map to pop up with a blinking dot somewhere on the ship. The map was gibberish to her, but Taroa nodded and confidently moved off in a direction after staring at it for only a few moments. Layla followed him. 

They ended up practically on the other side of the ship, in a section that was a bit rougher-looking than the rest. The tracker led them to a locker room, empty of any living beings, but before she could even get disappointed Taroa was striding into the attached gym, turning off his ‘padd. This gym was apparently set up for martial arts training, and nearly deserted, only three other people there; a pair of Vode’ade lightly boxing in a ring, and a very tall Zygerrian with his back to the room, grunting as he pummeled a punching bag. Layla examined the boxing pair more closely, wondering which might be Lukkamar. 

The pair noticed her and Taroa loitering in the doorway after a moment, their faces lighting up with recognition and exchanging a look before... quietly leaving. Taroa’s gaze never left the lone remaining figure as they slipped past. She felt her eyebrow raise. Lukkamar was a Zygerrian? Well that explained the blaster thing. 

For a while, they simply stood there, her in the doorway, Taroa only a few steps into the gym, watching the tawny Zygerrian. Layla had seen many Zygerians by this point in her life, and could only describe this one as... drab. All shades of brown, besides his exceptional height and sleek build he wasn’t much to look at. His most eye-catching feature, at least from the back, was the multitude of piercings that ran up the outside edge of both his ears, glittering with an eclectic collection of rings and studs. 

Finally, the Zygerrian slowed, then stopped, back and sides heaving as he hugged the punching bag, apparently using it to stay upright. Still turned away, face nearly buried in the bag, he spoke in a sibilant voice, slightly out of breath. “Ni ru’sirbur nu’slanar, Boba.”

Taroa answered without hesitation in the same language. “Ner gai nu’Boba.” 

The Zygerrian froze, his spine going rigid. “... tion mar’eyir ni?”

Taroa ignored his question. Instead, he simply said, “Ni ceta.”

That caused the Zygerrian to whirl, revealing a broad nose and anguished tawny eyes. “Tion sirbur ibac?” he demanded, and Layla had long exhausted her scant knowledge of Mando’a in this conversation, but she could hear the emotions; the desperate, tortured plea. She pressed a hand over her mouth. 

Taroa switched to Amattaka then. "Tell me a story." 

That made the Zygerrian blink in shock, flinching back, some of the guilt being replaced with bewilderment. "Me'ven?"

"A story," Taroa insisted. "Like when I was little." 

The Zygerrian licked his lips, hesitating, clearly confused, before asking softly in Amattaka, "Which story?" 

Her husband shrugged, but the gesture was anything but nonchalant. "Whichever was my favorite." 

The Zygerrian huffed a flat, joyless laugh, closing his eyes, but didn't hesitate. "Once, there was a great warrior, like his parent before him..."

Taroa listened to him speak intently, like their community listened to him. Layla listened too, recognizing the story of First. Of course that had been Taroa's favorite. Some of the details were different, but the basic storyline was the same; and as Lukkamar relaxed into the telling, Layla wasn't sure if she was grieved or amused to recognize Taroa's storytelling cadence. 

As she listened, watching her husband drift subly closer and closer to Lukkamar, hardly seeming aware he was even doing it, she couldn't help but think of whispers in the dark and her first cup of tzai. _I think I had a big family. I had a father. I was taught by Mandalorians. I had two older brothers._

 _I remember his voice._

She wasn't sure how long they stood there, listening, but eventually the story drew to its usual conclusion. "... as the ship burned, a great inferno, First turned his face to the stars once more and never looked back. He followed the ways of his people, and went on to have as many children as there are stars in the night sky, each burning just as brightly as the First. And so we remember, we are the descendants of a warrior, who fought his way free, and we will always do the same. I-" 

Lukkamar choked to a stop, suddenly seeming to recall who he was telling the story to and becoming uncertain again. His brown eyes opened, locking on to Taroa, only an arm's length away now. Lost and searching. 

Taroa met his gaze unflinchingly. Softly, he replied, "I remembered." His hand lifted, making the gesture, the Zygerrian's eyes following the movement; almost shy, he added, "I remembered, and it saved my life. You and all the stories." 

"How?" Lukkamar whispered. 

Layla didn't have to see her husband's face to know he smiled. "I want to tell you a story. Will you listen?" 

Lukkamar nodded slowly, his eyes still searching. 

"Once," Taroa began, and Layla could see when Lukkamar recognized the cadence too, but didn't interrupt, "There was a slave. His Depur stole all from him; his past, his name, his aliit. He even covered his face with a muzzle, a mocking echo of his past, so none might recognize him and give himself back to him." 

Lukkamar flinched, his eyes closing again and face turning away. They startled open again when Taroa's hand landed on his bicep, meeting Taroa's eyes again. 

"For many years, the slave lived like that. Little more than an animal, a plaything of Depur. His Depur gloated and tortured him at every opportunity, thinking he had won. But Depur didn't know the slave had a secret."

"What Depur didn't know, is while you can take from the mind," his other hand reached up, slowly, and when Lukkamar did nothing to resist, placed his palm on the Zygerrian's bare chest, over his heart. "You cannot take the knowledge of the bones." 

Lukkamar inhaled sharply, eyes going wide. Taroa continued firmly. 

"Even that first night, alone and confused in his cell, without even a name to call himself, the slave heard on the desert wind in his bones a voice calling, 'I tell you this story to save your life, vod'ika. Will you remember?' And he remembered. Not much, but enough. He remembered that his face was Ekkereth's face, his heart was Ar-Amu's heart. He remembered that a dragon lived in his skin, the desert was in his bones, and he was descended from warriors that roamed the stars. He remembered he was born to breathe free. And he remembered his ori'vode were coming." Lukkamar's breath hitched, and his eyes closed again, this time clearly against tears. His face and posture both crumpled, the tall Zygerrian nearly collapsing, but Taroa was there and caught him. 

Layla watched the two men clutch desperately at each other, her vision blurring with tears she didn't bother to wipe away. She could hear the murmur of Taroa's voice still, but couldn't make out the words anymore; it didn't matter. The words were for Lukkamar, not her. They were their secret to keep. 

Eventually, Taroa nudged Lukkamar up from his shoulder, pressing their brows together affectionately. His voice regained volume. 

“It wasn’t all bad,” he chuckled dryly, switching back to Basic, which Layla couldn’t help but assume was for her benefit. 

Lukkamar hacked a hoarse laugh, but obligingly switched languages too. “I was a slave once, too, vod’ika,” he replied. “I didn’t find anything nice about it.” 

Taroa huffed a laugh of his own. “You didn’t find a wife... I don’t think?” Lukkamar didn’t answer, just shook his head in the negative. “Well I did.” With a last squeeze, Taroa broke contact enough to turn back to her, though he left his hand cupping Lukkamar’s nape. The Zygerrian blinked, following his gaze, seeming startled to realize they weren’t alone. 

Layla smiled, advancing when Taroa held out a hand to her, clasping his hand. She grinned at the Zygerrian, who blinked owlishly back. 

He looked like hell, all haggard and scruffy. Like he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep or a decent bath-house visit in years. She supposed over a decade of self-punishment and borderline self-imposed exile, if Boba was to be believed, would do that to a man. She had always found the dark sclera of Zygerrians off-putting at best, and being bloodshot did Lukkamar no favors on that front. But she didn’t say any of that. 

Instead, she said brightly, “Boy, am I glad I’m not the tallest one in the family anymore!” 

Lukkamar startled, a laugh bursting from him. Something like life returned to his eyes, and Layla felt her grin widen. “Lukkamar, I presume?” she asked. 

“Close,” he replied, wiping fresh tears- this time of laughter- away. He held out his hand. “Ek masa nu Arreru Anumakkar ka.” 

Layla gripped his arm without hesitation, and she saw something in his shoulders relax. “Ek masa nu Layla Tikeri ki,” she replied in kind. “Now come have some breakfast. Luna’s been asking after you.” 

Arreru glanced at Taroa, uncertain, but when her husband just gave an encouraging nod, he finally relaxed all the way, a small, shy smile forming on his face. 

“Yeah. Yeah, ok.” 


	16. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life on Cin Vehtin was good.

Layla sat as serenely as she could, trying her best to project a sense of calm, and pretend her intestines weren’t currently attempting to make a jerba ribbon. 

She knew, on a logical level, that there was nothing at all to be worried about; Cody and Gree had explained the procedure, having witnessed it several times, though it had been decades since the last ‘reconditioning reversal’, and while there was a risk it was minimal. Considering that no one else in her community even had the option to  _ try _ , even if it wasn’t a complete success, there was no reason for her to be anything but grateful that her husband could regain his before. The knowledge did little to soothe her churning thoughts, the  _ I think I might have had a child _ and  _ I could have as many descendants as stars in the sky _ and  _ who knows? _ The Alverds had reassured her that he hadn’t left a family or lover behind, but she couldn’t help herself. He wouldn’t be the first young man to keep secrets from his family. So she did her best to shove the thoughts away and keep her face serene. 

She was pretty sure she was successful. 

In the waiting room with her was the entire Alverd clan. Most of them were at least faking calm like she was, with varying degrees of success. As the least invested, Jacin and Yvonne were the calmest, of course; their main concerns really for the well being of their respective lovers. Bali was the next best, expertly distracting the children, both Layla’s and Mira’s- they were all the same in her eyes at this point, all her grandchildren- with a story as her hands absently worked a ribbon, distracting herself in the process. Cody and Gree were both sitting stone-faced. Mira and Blenda sat to either side of her, her sisters holding her hands, Layla’s tight grip the only outward sign of her anxiety she allowed herself. 

Tal and Arreru were about to break down the door together. 

They had started out alright, merely fidgeting nervously when they took seats with the rest of them and Taroa disappeared deeper into the office with the Jedi Healer. One hour had turned to two, and the pair had begun to pace. It had just passed hour three, and the two looked like they were seriously restraining themselves from charging through the door her husband had disappeared through. Cody had stiffly attempted to comfort them a while ago, but gotten only wordless snarls in return. No one else tried after that. 

Boba and Sin came through the door, both sweaty and rough looking. Apparently they had come straight from a job. Boba slipped off his helmet, handing it to his wife, taking in the room at a glance and immediately went to his brothers, while Sin came and sat with her, Blenda and Mira. Layla smiled tightly at her in greeting, which she returned. 

Boba, on the other hand, had managed to catch his younger brother, knocking their foreheads together a bit more roughly than usual and murmuring to him for a bit before pushing him into the waiting arms of a worried Yvonne. Then he turned to Arreru. 

Layla jumped and yelped in surprise when the Mand’alor abruptly and effortlessly knocked his taller brother onto his back on the floor, elegantly turning with him in a swirl of black synthleather to straddle a now flailing and snarling but thoroughly pinned Zygerrian and holding Arreru down with his hands on Arreru’s shoulders. After a moment, Arreru seemed to recognize his brother and stilled, but instead started to shout in Mando’a. Boba shouted right back. Layla still didn’t know a lot of Mando’a, so she couldn’t really follow the conversation; she was mostly just picking up the insults. The shouting seemed to be mostly insults, actually. 

Nervously, she glanced at Mira; her younger sister caught her questioning gaze and offered her a small smile and shrug, though her eyes were still pinched. “Mando love,” she explained simply. 

Of course. 

Eventually, Arreru seemed to run out of steam, Boba deescalating at the same rate, until finally he wasn’t holding Arreru down anymore; instead, he was leaned forward, hands cradling the sides of Arreru’s head and pressing their brows together, the two murmuring back and forth. They didn’t seem to be inclined to move off the floor anytime soon, and apparently nobody was inclined to move them or even interrupt their display.

Layla shook her head. Mandalorians. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Sintas, who was smiling fondly at the pair. Layla couldn’t help but be a bit taken aback. While she had learned physical selflessness in slavery, and Vode’ade just seemed to not know what the phrases “personal space” or “appropriate affection” meant, her sister-in-law was neither former slave nor Vode’ade, except by marriage. She wasn’t even Mandalorian. She was a bounty hunter like Boba, but as far as Layla knew, she was all Kiffar culturally. How was she ok with her husband being in such a suggestive pose? 

Sintas caught her inquisitive stare, and raised an eyebrow. “What?” 

Bluntly, Layla asked, tilting her head towards the pair on the floor, “That doesn’t bother you?” 

The Kiffar woman smiled wryly and shook her head. “There’s no room for jealousy among these people. Besides,” she held up a gloved hand, lightly wiggling her fingers playfully, “I’ve seen how they feel. There’s nothing to be jealous of anyway.” 

Layla chuckled, shaking her head. “I see.” 

Finally, four hours after closing, the door opened again, revealing the petite Miralian woman that had introduced herself as Jedi Healer Offee. She smiled wearily at the tense room, exhausted but triumphant. 

“It was a success,” she declared simply, then stepped to the side. 

Tal was up off Yvonne’s lap in a heartbeat, Arreru and Mira not two steps behind him, Boba bringing up the rear of the initial barreling charge. 

The rest of them filed into the room more sedately. The room was dim, lit only by a single soft lamp, nothing in it but a low, soft looking couch and a matching chair. Taroa was laid out on the couch, an arm thrown over his eyes, still and quiet. 

Tal skidded to a stop on his knees at the end of the couch, looming over Taroa’s head, wild and nearly desperate. “Tor?” he called plaintively. “Tor, ner vod, ner  _ ori’vod _ ,  jorhaa'ir ni-” 

Taroa’s other hand shot up from where it had been resting on his belly, clapping over Tal’s mouth with unerring accuracy, his arm never moving from his eyes. The entire room went still, holding its breath. 

Softly and completely deadpan, Taroa said, “You still talk too much.” 

Tal immediately brightened, knocking Taroa’s hand to the side and bursting, “Tor!” 

Taroa’s arm lifted, and he grinned. “Ni su’oyayc.” 

Instantly, he was being smothered by his family, his eyes lighting up with recognition now as he greeted his siblings and parents. Layla hung back, keeping the children with her, at least for the moment; letting the estranged family welcome their brother and son home properly. Blenda and Bali lingered too, she assumed for the same reasons. 

He hugged his now crying parents, nodding obligingly when Gree insisted neither he nor any of his siblings were allowed to die before him ever again and accepting the kiss Cody pressed to his brow. Arreru he hugged fiercely, the same for Boba, and oddly enough, Sintas. His little sister, he gasped at, his eyes going wide as he cupped her tear-streaked but grinning face, like he had just recognized her. “Mira, you- you were a  _ cadet- _ ka’ra, I met your ade!” Mira giggled, lightly tapping her forehead against his. Finally, he turned to sit on the couch where his head had been, cupping Tal’s head in his palms and pressing their foreheads together, like Boba had done with Arreru. Tal clutched him back, sobbing now. 

“We  _ promised, _ ” Tal sobbed. “We promised we’d do it all together!” 

“I know,” Tor murmured gently, soothing and apologetic. 

“How could you get  _ married _ without me!” 

“I know, I know. N’eparavu takisit, ner ori’vod.” Teasing, he added, “In my defense, we both thought I was dead.” 

Tal barked a reluctant laugh, weakly punching Taroa’s shoulder. Her husband didn’t even flinch, merely grinning. He jerked his elbow towards Yvonne, Layla assuming so he didn’t upset their embrace by moving his head or hands, and added teasingly, “You’ve fallen behind, vod. You better catch up.” 

Tal nodded, holding on to his wayward twin for only a moment longer before breaking away and marching over to Yvonne, nearly crashing into him. Yvonne wrapped his arms around Tal without hesitation. Layla smiled. 

Finally, Taroa’s eyes met hers, and they softened. Layla moved forward. 

The Alverds didn’t back off, unwilling to leave their son and brother’s side, but they did shift, allowing her and Bali and Blenda and the children into the circle. Carefully, mindful of her bulging belly, Layla sat beside him. “So,” she hummed, only a slight tremor to her hands, “How are you feeling?” 

He smiled fondly, reaching out to brush some hair from her face like he always did, and Layla felt her hands still. “My head hurts,” he admitted softly. “And I’m not sure my proper name right now. But I know you. And I know my aliit. So I can’t really ask for more.” His hand slipped to the back of her neck, tugging her down until their foreheads touched. She hooked her foot around his calf, and he placed his free hand on her knee, pulling their legs tighter together. 

“Te masu em lukkema,” he whispered, and she felt the last of her fear evaporate. 

  
  
  


Thirteen years after leaving home, twelve years after meeting his mother, eight years after the birth of his eldest child and marriage to his wife, and six months after his liberation, Tor Tikeri was content. 

His people had decided, like many before them, to settle in Di’base. They were still learning their way, but his first people were well versed in supporting fearful and lost former slaves; he and Layla did not carry the burden of guiding alone anymore, but he still took pride in helping where he could, still filled the role of Grandfather for those who needed. Many of them, including his mother, found their way to the creches with the former slave younglings. He found himself there most days, too, telling stories as he had always done; this time, with his mother and his ori’vod at his side, Arreru taking delight in surprising the younglings, who were used to the same stories, with new ones they had never heard before. 

His children all blossomed. His wife proudly displayed her snippet on a necklace, now, secure and proud, and sang louder than ever. 

His youngest child had been born on his homeworld, free, like he was meant to be. In the aftermath, his wife leaned against his chest, sweaty and tired, and as they watched their son be passed from excited family member to family member, Layla had murmured for him alone, “Five is enough.” 

He had nodded, accepting without question. He understood. Some Amavikkan had freedom marks; Layla had her children. He would always give her what he could. They named him Nimku. 

After many long sessions with a therapist, and several conversations with his aliit, he knew who he was once again. Painstakingly, they knit together his before and his after, and had discovered perhaps three months of his past, between when he was taken and his first memory in Jundice’s cells, including the fateful mission, were truly lost. Perhaps it was for the best. Settled in his knowledge and sense of self once more, he reclaimed his armor at the same time as his ori’vod. Arreru hadn’t lost his, but he had repainted it while he searched; for nearly ten years, his armor had been a flat, bleak beskar gray. Together, they stripped it; and together, they painted anew. 

Soft orange and dark green, for their Buire. Dusty red, for home and endurance. On their shoulders, a stark black Broken Fetter, to remember. In an echo of his old armor, once again honoring his ori’vods gift so long ago, he added a thin band of brighter, happier green on his right vambrace, right at the wrist; this time, adding the protective sigils he hadn’t quite understood as a teenling in a slightly darker shade. On the left, he added a band of black, with symbols in red. Layla grinned when she saw it. Mitta demanded to know when she could have armor. 

He wore it proudly as he marched into Di’base EdFac with his Buir. Gree fondly mirshmure'cya him before turning towards the science sector; Tor turned towards the history sector. 

He had never been in the room before, but he recognized it from Boba’s descriptions. Round, with a domed ceiling, a sunken pit in the center, and muraled wall. He took a few moments to admire the wall, put names to the figures and events; the Commanders and Generals and ARCs. There was even 99, ori’vod of all, smiling benignly over the room. Tor smiled to himself; a truer avatar of Ar-Amu he had never heard of. He made the gesture of remembrance, offering up a prayer for guidance and luck to his marched away ori’vode, and set about preparing. 

The lights he dimmed until he could barely see the walls. The temperature he raised a few degrees; not enough to make one sweat, but enough to be noticeable. I wasn’t quite like the sauna, but it was close, and he hoped it would be close enough for the younglings, and would help. He verified he had the images and footage he wished to share ready on his ‘padd, then synced it to the holoproj in the floor. 

As ready as he could be, he settled in to wait. 

At midday, they came. Hesitant and nervous, filing in in ones and twos. A few he did not recognize, younglings of another origin, but most he knew, the younglings of his community. Those that he did recognize relaxed and smiled as they recognized their Grandfather. He smiled back. 

When all had arrived and settled in the circle, he spoke, soft as steam. 

“Listen, vod’ike,” he called. “Listen, and Ori’vod will tell you a story.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Dukkra Tikeri wove her way through the crowded market, keeping her head down and eyes up. 

The atmosphere of Zygerria’s capital city was tense, worried. The news of the latest Diamond’s Men raid a mere few weeks earlier on yet another of their territory worlds, closer than ever before, had shaken the Empire. Zygerrians glanced suspiciously at her as she passed, but dismissed her when they noticed her downcast eyes and prop slave collar, allowing her to pass mostly unnoticed. 

“ _ Doing ok down there, Tikeri? _ ”

Muttering under her breath, moving her lips as little as possible, she resisted the urge to roll her eyes and replied, knowing the vibrations would be clearly picked up by the microphone in the collar, “I’ve been here for less than an hour, quit worrying Ba’vu.”

“ _ After what happened with your Buir? Not a shiny’s chance. _ ” 

Dukkra felt her lips twitch in a suppressed smile. Aliit. 

Eventually, she found herself in a small shop. Imports, it looked like. She scanned the inside of the shop as she moved towards the back counter, making sure to communicate the body language of a slave running an important errand. 

“Visual contact,” she whispered. 

“ _ You’re sure it’s Maru? _ ” 

Dukkra carefully looked over the slim woman behind the counter. About a decade older than herself, maybe a little more. Lavender skin, short, straight blue hair. A slave collar. 

She looked just like a paler version of Aunt Blenda, just like Bu said she would. 

“Positive,” she confirmed. 

“ _ Wait until you’re certain you’re alone, then make direct contact.”  _

“Yessir.” 

She compared two different kinds of expensive tea for several long minutes, keeping up the illusion of being on an errand. Eventually, the woman behind the counter finished with the current customer. When the customer left, she moved from behind the counter, coming to Dukkra’s side. 

“Good day,” she greeted Dukkra, harried and tired but friendly. “Can I help you find something?” 

Dukkra allowed herself a small smile and leaned in close. “Tell me, auntie,” she replied softly, in Sleantah. The woman stiffened slightly. “Has anyone ever told you a story?” 


	17. Glossary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Warning* Please note, these definitions are how they are defined in the Cin Vehtin fannon, not necessarily aligning with cannon or their original fanon, though links to sources have been included where possible. All credit to the appropriate owners. *Warning*

In order of appearance: 

**Depuran**. Amattaka. Plural of ‘depur’, the Amattaka word for a slaver. Often translated as ‘Master/s’, but also used to refer to anyone that participates in slavery. 

**Mind-wipe** . A medical procedure where neural connections are damaged or severed, resulting in short and long term memory loss. Common among slaves of the Zygerian Empire. Also referred to as ‘past-stealing’, ‘reconditioning’, and ‘Revan’s Cure’. [ [ Further reading. ](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Memory_wipe/Legends)]

**Ka’ra**. Mando’a. Literally ‘stars’, figuratively the mythological council of past Mand’alors. Mando’ade legend claims the dead literally do become stars, guiding the wandering Mando’ade still living. 

**First** . Starring character in the Legend of First, a warrior who was defeated in battle and made into a slave, then fought his way free to go on to be a warrior again and have ‘as many descendants as there are stars in the sky’. Based off of the history of Mand’alor Jango Fett, as told by his son Boba Fett. [ [ Further reading. ](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Jango_Fett/Legends#Leading_the_Mandalorians)]

**Ekkereth** . The shapeshifting, genderfluid trickster god and folk hero of the Amavikkan. Most Amavikkan stories are about Ekkereth or have them as a character. Has several epithets, but the two most common are ‘Trickster’ and ‘Sky-Walker’. Associated with the color gray, freedom (specifically the kind that is won by trickery), the moons, and red birds. Their symbol is called Trickster. Their sacred number is three. [ [ Further reading. ](https://fialleril.tumblr.com/tagged/ekkreth-the-trickster)]

**Ar-Amu** . The formless but feminine chief deity of the Amavikkan, sometimes simply called ‘the Mother’. Not all-powerful, but acting as a counterbalance mythically to the archetypal Depur. Typically invoked as a protector rather than an active character in stories, though has several sacred stories specifically about her. Has seven sacred epithets, most common being ‘Moonspinner’. Associated with the color black, wind, all the celestial bodies, water, the desert itself, and lightning. Symbol is called the Amarattu. Her sacred number is seven. [ [ Further reading. ](https://fialleril.tumblr.com/tagged/ar-amu)]

**Leia (character)** . Another mythical demigod/folk hero of the Amavikkan. Also distinctly feminine, she is the eldest daughter of Ekkereth, said to be the elder sister of all the Amavikkan, and takes the form of a pure white Greater Krayt Dragon. Also has several epithets, with the two most common being 'Elder Sister' and 'the Mighty One', an epithet she shares with the prophet Tena. She is associated with the color white, freedom (particularly freedom violently won), righteous anger, fire, reckonings, the suns, and the wind. Her symbol is also called Leia. Her sacred number is two. [ [ Further reading. ](https://fialleril.tumblr.com/tagged/krayt-dragon)]

**Lukkamar** . A much more vague and possibly newer deity of the Amavikka, Lukkamar is the personification of sandstorms, the brother of Leia. As such, they have no solid physical representation, and primarily interact through speaking during storms; like Ar-Amu and Leia, more often invoked than an active character in stories. Sometimes they're represented as male, but not always. As the great equalizer, also has a role as the ultimate impartial judge of sins and a catalyst for dramatic but subtle change, as opposed to Leia's more personal, passionate and destructive change connotations. Not as many epithets as the other deities, most commonly referred to as 'the Storm' or 'the Just'. Associated with the color orange, equality, storms, the freedom trail, transformation, wind, and just punishment. His symbol is called the Umakkar. He has no official sacred number, but some ascribe him the number two, like Leia. [ [ Further reading. ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18206480/chapters/43070102)]

**Krayt Dragon.** Both a real and a mythical species native to Tatooine. There are two subspecies, the Greater and the Lesser Krayt Dragon. Lesser Krayts are fairly common and reptilian, large carnivorous lizard-like creatures. Greater Krayts are larger, more dangerous, and commonly believed to be either extinct or critically endangered. Myth often attributes Greater Krayts abilities such as flight and being able to breathe fire, but this is debated and doubted by most serious researchers. Krayt Dragon is also a slight mistranslation; the word Krayt simply means dragon. [ [ Further reading ](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Krayt_dragon/Legends)]. 

**Gladiator**. A specialized class of slave that fights for the entertainment of their masters. A lot of variations on what the fights can look like (to the death or to the blood, with or without weapons, for a single person’s amusement or in an arena of thousands, ect) and the standing of gladiators in a particular slave master’s hierarchy. In general, due to their purpose, they tend to be kept slightly apart from the general slave population, and command some level of respect/fear from the average slave. Some may even perform other duties at their masters’ discretion, but their primary duties are always fighting. 

**Singer**. Colloquial term on Tattooine for a surgeon’s assistant or medic, so called because of the tradition of substituting anesthesia and pain medications (either by choice or because they aren’t available) with singing or chanting to distract a patient and keep them grounded. 

**Strill** . Six-legged predator animal native to Mandalore. Endangered on their home planet, they are increasingly rare, but still prized as hunting/tracking animals and companions by Mando’ade. [ [ Further reading. ](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Strill)]

**Grandmother** . Gan-Amu in Amattaka. Respectful honorific among the Amavikkan, denoting someone that is wise and knowledgeable, typically a community and spiritual leader. The actual age of the person matters less than their standing in the community. The terms Grandfather (Gar-Ipa) and Grandparent (Gal-Ena) are also used where applicable. [ [ Further reading ](https://fialleril.tumblr.com/search/grandmother).]

**True Name** . A concept native to the Amavikka, a facet of their culture of secrecy and facet of their tradition of declaring your personhood/agency through actions, beliefs, and self identity. Many Amavikka have two names; their public name, which might not be a choice and is used with slavers, outsiders, and anyone else that isn’t trusted, and their ‘True Name’, which is kept secret from everyone but other Amavikkan and trusted individuals. Using one’s True Name publicly is typically considered either foolhardy or the ultimate declaration of self-ownership, depending on context. True Names are an especially common practice among those who lead double lives in some way and need to protect their identities, particularly operatives on the freedom trail, treating their public names like epithets of the deities or code names. [ [ Further reading. ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23884477)]

**Heart of hearts**. Another facet of the Amavikkan secrecy culture, it is believed that sacred secrets are kept in three places; the soul, which is seated in the head, and where hopes are kept; the heart of hearts, seated in the belly, which is where precious personal realities (like True Names, loved ones and other facets of your identity) are kept; and the bones, which is where sacred, communal knowledge (like taroa stories) is kept. The Gesture of Remembrance references all three. 

**Amavikkan.** The general demonym of the Amavikka, or ‘Children of the Mother’, the prevalent culture/religion practiced in secret by slaves and former slaves from Tatooine. Has roots in Tusken traditions, particularly with their deities, language and general philosophy of the desert, with heavy influences from Huttese in their language and Ryloth slave culture, as well as several other influences. The language is called Amattaka. [ [ Further reading. ](https://archiveofourown.org/series/8580)]

**Taroa**. Amatakka. Means ‘story’, particularly the sacred kind, the myths that are more than myths and can save your life. 

**Sleantah** . The secret slave creole native to the Zygerian Empire. While the slave culture connected to the language is less developed due to Zygeria’s historical relationship with slavery and prevalant use of mind-wipes, a common thread is every slave knowing at least the greeting, ‘So'lanai’. The word is often used as shorthand for ‘I am/was a slave too, you can trust me’. [ [ Further reading. ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7394932/chapters/16796902)]

**The Mighty One would come with the Storm.** A slight paraphrase and re-contextualization of a line from the story of Tena, the first prophet. In the story, the line is ‘The Mighty One comes with the storm and with fire’, and describes Tena returning after freeing herself to free other slaves. Often used colloquially to describe an impending shake-up or reckoning. [ [ Further reading. ](https://fialleril.tumblr.com/post/149060073516/tena-the-prophet)]

**Tzai** . Amattaka. A chai-like steeped drink from Tatooine. Recipes vary greatly and are closely guarded family secrets, Amavikkan rarely admitting to outsiders that it even exists (sometimes insisting it doesn’t exist even while they’re serving it to a guest), but it is always served hot and uses the leaves of the tzai plant as a basis. It is a cultural cornerstone of the Amavikkan, and it is said that ‘When Ar-Amu weeps and gathers her children again from all seven corners of the desert’ (ie slavery is ended), it is by commonalities in tzai recipes that families/loved ones will be able to recognize each other. It plays an important role in hospitality traditions, wedding/adoption rituals, providing a connection with lost/displaced loved ones, and a symbol of resistance in general. It has associations with family, healing, secrets, and the prophet Ebra, who is said to be the one that was taught to make tzai by Ar-Amu and Leia themselves, and spread the secret to the rest of the Amavikkan. [ [ Further reading. ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20469590)]

**Datapadd** . A hybrid PDA/tablet type piece of technology in common use throughout the galaxy for a variety of purposes, including accessing the holonet, local information networks, communications, and storing information. Sometimes called a ‘padd. [ [ Further reading. ](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Datapad/Legends)]

**Bath-house**. Zygerian culture is extremely focused on personal hygiene and has a complex tradition of public and semi-public bath-houses to facilitate this. Traditionally, a very private affair, shared only with close family and friends. Describing two people as ‘they go to the bath-house together’ is an idiom with the implication of a very close relationship between two people, and additional implications depending on the two people in question and the context. A common way of broadcasting your family’s wealth is to have large, elaborate bath-houses in your home instead of using public ones, and which public bath-house you can afford to use is also an indicator of wealth/status. While in the past, bath-houses were separate structures, hence the name, in modern Zygeria they are rarely not attached to a larger structure or complex. 

**Corellian Hells**. Corellian religion is very syncretic, and as a result practitioners believe in a complex system of hells where the damned wander, lost, for eternity. Sects differ on how many hells there are, what sins might send you there, and their exact nature, but in general they agree betraying the trust of your kin definitely will send you to them, and there’s between seven and forty six hells. 

**So'lanai**. Sleantah. Common greeting. Colloquially used as shorthand to identify oneself as a current or former slave and indicate your trustworthiness to other slaves, and traditionally the first word learned by a new slave. 

**Kuur, vod’ika, kuur**. Mando’a. Translates to ‘hush, little/younger/cute sibling/friend, hush’. Soothing expression. 

**Holodrama**. Recorded visual entertainment, like plays or operas. When broken in several pieces or serialized, called holoserials. 

**Mando’a** . The language of the Mandalorians. A highly contextual language, notable for several unusual linguistic quirks that result from being the language of a simultaneously utilitarian and poetic people that includes members from a variety of backgrounds. Notable characteristics include a lack of gendered terms- leading some to speculate that the ancient Taung were in fact agender or hermaphroditic in some way- a fairly loose grammatical structure, and the variety of largely interchangeable dialects. [ [ Further reading. ](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Mando'a/Legends)]

**Vod**. Mando’a. Plural vode. Usually translated as ‘brother’ or ‘sister’, a highly contextual gender neutral word similar to the British/Australian slang term ‘mate’. While usually indicating a close, sibling-like (or literal sibling) relationship, can also refer to a comrade-in-arms, a friend, or simply be a catch-all term for people in general, like ‘guy’, though this use is rarer. The two derivative words, ori’vod and vod’ika, are similarly contextual, usually translated as ‘elder sibling’ and ‘younger sibling’, respectively; in reality they often simply indicate how the speaker views the person they are calling by one of those terms and how the speaker views their relationship. 

**Gesture of Remembrance** . An Amavikka tradition similar to the Christian tradition of crossing oneself. Performed by touching the fingertips of your non-dominant hand (or the left if you're ambidextrous) to your sternum, then your lips. The intent of the gesture is described with the phrase 'I remember in my heart and with my lips', a promise to remember the lessons/secrets you have learned, keep them safe, and pass them on where appropriate. As such, most often performed after the conclusion of a taroa story, though can also be performed in acknowledgement of a lesson, being trusted with a secret, honor/memorial of someone, mark a promise, as a good luck charm, and for other reasons. [ [ Further reading. ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18206681/chapters/43070654)]

**Ebra** . A prophet of the Amavikkan, said to be a nameless one and prevented from forming other familial bonds by his master, Ebra learned the secret of tzai from Ar-Amu and Leia in the desert, named himself and claimed a parent in defiance of his master, then shared the secret with the rest of the Amavikkan. Later in life, Ar-Amu also taught him the secrets of the sacred sigils and how to carve them into japor wood snippets, which he also shared with the Amavikkan. His name is a word; it means ‘laughter’. He is associated with tzai, family, japor, secrets, the practice of True Names, and Ar-Amu. [ [ Further reading ](https://fialleril.tumblr.com/tagged/ebra-the-prophet)]. 

**Mitta** . The main character in her story. Not a prophet, but a well known folk hero. In her story, she spends her life saving up money to buy her freedom, only to end up deciding to use the money to free other slaves instead, illustrating the ‘mittanku’ method of obtaining freedom. She is often invoked as an example for parents to follow. Her name is derived from the Amattaka word mittu, which means 'endure'. [ [ Further reading. ](https://fialleril.tumblr.com/post/175129492916/i-will-endure)]

**Akar Hinil** . The Twi'lek folk hero of Ryloth, Tatooine, and several other worlds. A pirate and freedom fighter that was enslaved on Ryloth, then sold onto Tatooine, before freeing himself and going on to make a career out of causing trouble in the Ryloth-Hutt slave trade routes with his human friend/sidekick Tibora . Legends claim Depur tried to kill him and he disappeared into flame like Tena, and he will return when Ryloth/Tatooine/ect needs him most. A semi-historical figure whose literal existence and actual deeds is hotly debated, he is regardless an important figure associated with the freedom trail and has a symbol of his own; a white bird, surrounded by the Broken Fetter and wreathed in flame. His symbol is often used to indicate smugglers who are part of the freedom trail and can get a runaway off planet. [ [ Further reading. ](https://fialleril.tumblr.com/tagged/akar-hinil)]

**Umar**. A prophet of the Amavikkan. It is said he was born a slave, but his master cast him out as a baby to die, and Ekkereth saved him and sent him to grow up among freemen. After he grew up as a freeman, he discovered his adoptive family were slavers and ran away into the desert, where he was met again by Ekkereth and the other deities, who reminded him of his roots. He returned to the slave quarter to establish the first freedom trail, and like Tena, freed hundreds of slaves before disappearing into a storm. His name is derived from the Amattaka word umakkar, which means ‘storm’. 

**Tena** . The first prophet of the Amavikka, and the first slave to become Unfettered; a specific classification of freed slave who won their freedom via either strength, trickery, or surviving the explosions of their slave transmitters. According to legend, she was a slave that ran and had her slave transmitter detonated in the desert. She was so beloved of Ar-Amu that she survived it, though marked with ‘skin like a dragon’, and returned to the slave quarter to free hundreds of other slaves. When she was captured by Depur, he attempted to kill her, only for her to disappear into flame. She is closely associated with Leia, with whom she shares the epithets ‘The Mighty One’ and ‘the Unfettered’. Her name is also an Amattaka word, meaning plant. [ [ Further reading. ](https://fialleril.tumblr.com/tagged/tena-the-prophet)]

**Ori’vod**. Mando'a. Usually translated as 'older brother', it is a highly contextual term with several different meanings. In different contexts, it can mean an older sibling, a mentor, a bff. Among the Vode'ade, the term also is used to describe a brother-by-choice. Used by Taroa to mean essentially ‘Grandfather-lite’. 

**Amattaka** . The language of the Amavikka. Entomologically descended from Tusken, the alphabet especially being extremely similar, it has influence from Huttese, Ryl, and several other languages. [ [ Further reading. ](https://fialleril.tumblr.com/tagged/amatakka)]

**Amarattu**. Amattaka. Literally the ‘Mother’s Protection’, the symbol of Ar-Amu. A complex pictogram consisting of a rectangle with waving lines extending from each of the four corners, representing the desert and the winds, and several additional marks, two crosses and three circular symbols, representing the celestial bodies. The positions of the five celestial bodies are variable from carving to carving, including changing the orientation of the circular symbols to indicate the different phases of the moons, and can be used to communicate a specific date and time. The most common symbol carved into japor and nearly the universal symbol of the Amavikka. Carries all the same connotations of Ar-Amu, and believed to confer favor and protection from her on the bearer. 

**Leia (symbol)**. Amatakka. Also called the mark of the Mighty One, the symbol of Leia the Krayt Dragon. Looks like a stylized claw mark, with three lines radiating out from a curved line. Typically depicted with the curved line up. The mark carries all the same associations as Leia, and is thought to confer particular favor and protection to the bearer from Leia herself. 

**K'oyacyi**. Mando'a. A common phrase that literally means 'stay alive', in context it can be a familiar goodbye, 'come back safely’, or ‘hang in there’. Used by Taroa as a benection to protect and confer good luck. 

**Bakkru** . A dancing tradition from Tatooine that uses specific motions and costuming choices to communicate coded information. [ [ Further reading. ](https://fialleril.tumblr.com/post/157472341956/hello-there-your-blog-and-your-writing-are)]

**Jerba ribbons**. A folk art from Tatooine, similar to macrame, using sacred jerba cord (though Bali uses a cord with similar properties) a hemp-like fibrous cord that can be dyed several different colors. Often they are solid colors (tan being the most common color as that is the default color of undyed jerba cord) or incorporating geometric designs, but also can have complex messages or protective sigils worked into the decorations. They serve several purposes, including decoration, being a reserve of jerba cord for rituals (similar to a paracord bracelet), passing coded messages, and serving a similar purpose as japor snippets as protective tokens, using the same iconography as japor, the meanings of the symbols amplified and compounded through the use of Amavikkan color symbolism. Sometimes japor snippets can be attached to jerba ribbons for a powerful combined talisman, but this is not common. The ribbons are often used to make bracelets, anklets, arm bands, wider examples can be used to make belts, ect. It is common to give jerba ribbon bracelets worked with protective sigils to small children that can’t be trusted not to lose japor snippets yet. 

**Amu**. Amattaka for ‘Mother’. A common root word in Amattaka. 

**Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum**. Mando’a. A phrase that translates to, ‘I am alive, you are dead, I remember you, you are eternal.’ A memorial phrase for the dead describing the Mando philosophy regarding mourning and death. Most Mando’ade practice ‘Remembrance’, a ritual where they will say the phrase and then the names of all those that have died but they want to remember (called a ‘litany’) daily. Typically said in the morning, at the beginning of the day, so you carry the dead forward with you into the day (and also because many Mando’ade have a terrible habit of simply going until they drop, for one reason or another). 

**You are my freedom** . An Amavikkan idiom that is regarded as the most intense, and usually romantic, phrase that can be said to someone. Contextually usually means ‘I love you.’ [ [ Further reading. ](https://fialleril.tumblr.com/post/154864870981/hello-short-question-did-in-amatakka-exist-some)]

**Dukkra** . Amattaka word that means both ‘death’ and ‘freedom’. Originally simply meaning ‘death’, the word was used euphemistically so often that the word officially came to mean both. This is exemplified in the Amattaka phrase, ‘dukkra ba dukkra’, which means ‘freedom/death or freedom/death’. A much more hopeful phrase than usually understood by outsiders, as it expresses and reinforces the belief that all slaves will be made free, eventually; very similar connotations wise to the saying ‘one way or another’. [ [ Further reading. ](https://fialleril.tumblr.com/post/186689165641/so-im-writing-a-story-and-im-including-some-of)]

**Turtle-duck**. An aquatic species from Naboo that resembles both ducks and turtles. Lacking wings, they are not birds, but instead a kind of hybrid herbivorous amphibian-bird. Typically found in calmer waters such as ponds and slow-moving streams. 

**Alcerín**. Sleantah. Literally translated as ‘almost-sister’, a kin title used to refer to an adopted sister. The qualifier ‘almost’ is usually dropped in most translations into Basic, as culturally Sleantah speakers make no real distinction between blood and adoptive family. 

**Snippet.** A carved protective talisman carried by Amavikkan ideally at all times, but especially when venturing somewhere dangerous. Typically about the size of a large postage stamp, and made from japor wood. The snippets are carved with protective symbols, and making one for someone is typically a declaration of love (both romantic and familial) or kinship. Japor snippets are also usually exchanged during weddings, and these wedding japor usually have the Double Infinity carved into them. 

**Ni ceta**. Mando’a. Literally ‘I kneel’, it is the most serious, sincere form of ‘I apologize.’

**Black, the darkest shade she had...** The Amavikka ascribe very particular connotations to colors and use color symbolism often as a form of secret communication. Black is the color of freedom, secrets, night, and sacred things; white is the color of anger, pain, reckonings, and death **;** ect. [ [ Further reading ](https://fialleril.tumblr.com/post/145373882976/youve-mentioned-that-black-is-the-color-of).]

**Broken Fetter**. Also called the Kol-depuan in Amatakka or mark of the Unfettered, a symbol of the Unfettered and freedom. Looks like a circle broken into seven pieces. The antithesis of the Fetter, and related to the symbol Lukka, which is a more generalized symbol of freedom with less violent/destructive connotations than the Broken Fetter. 

**Double Infinity**. Also called Eternity, looks like two leminscates entwined. While can be used in several contexts, when depicted in blue or on wedding japor it acquires connotations of romantic love. When depicted in green, familial love. Generally used in a context where ‘forever’ is positive or neutral, as opposed to the Desert’s more negative or ambiguous connotations. 

**Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde**. Mando’a. Translates to ‘We are one together, we are one when apart, we will share all, we will raise warriors’. The traditional wedding vow of the Mando’ade. 

**Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum.** Mando’a. Literally translates to ‘I know you forever’, colloquially means ‘I love you’ in a romantic way. Never used in a familial or casual context. 

**Japor**. A low scrub plant native to Tatooine known for having a surprisingly soft inner core that hardens after several days exposure to the air into an extremely hard wood. Ideal for easily carving immediately after harvesting, and once cured, holding the carvings without being damaged. Jerba cord is traditionally made from the shredded, fibrous bark of the japor bush. 

**Bu**. Mando’a. Roughly translating as ‘Daddy’ or ‘Mommy’, the diminutive of ‘Buir’, the title of a parent in Mando’a. This title is non-gendered and refers to any kind of parental figure, but when a child must differentiate between parents, the most common method is by prefixing the title with the first syllable of their parent’s name. For example, Tar’bu or Bal’bu. 

**Amakuuna.** Amattaka. Literally translates as, ‘The Mother’s Promise’, the name of the largest of Tatooine’s moons. [ [ Further reading. ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6659119)] 

**Kandosii.** Mando’a. Literally translated as “indominable” or “ruthless”, colloquially used as an expression of praise or admiration, like “Wicked!” or “Well done!” In this context, more like “Atta girl”. 

**Vercopa gar parjir, vod’ika.** Mando’a. Translates to, “I wish you victory, little sister.” 

**Kol-Depuan.** Amattaka. Literally translates to “not/no longer fettered”, commonly translated as “Unfettered”. Another name for the Broken Fetter. See Broken Fetter for more. 

**Ruus.** Mando’a. Translates to ‘rock’. 

**Vode An** . Mando’a. A Mando’a war-chant. Usually translated as ‘Brothers, All,’ the adopted anthem of the Vode. [ [ Further reading. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ao1HQAPRSwo)]

**Shereshoy.** Mando’a. A state of being happy to be alive and in the moment, most commonly felt in the aftermath of a battle or during a celebration. 

**Diamond’s Men.** An organization native to Cin Vehtin, with the stated mission of ending all slavery in the galaxy, and punishing those that perpetuate it, regardless of borders. The organization has three distinct facets; the active service members, who organize and participate in all kinds of emancipation activity across the galaxy from rescuing single slaves to supporting pre-existing freedom trails to full scale planetary liberations; the punitive arm, which is based in Di’base on Cin Vehtin and tries/incarcerates/rehabilitates those guilty of slavery as appropriate; and the rehabillitative arm, also based in Di’base, which assists emancipated slaves with transitioning into freeborn life as needed. 

**Anumakkar.** Amattaka. Literally “Rain-Storm”, most often translated as “Hurricane.” The most common Amavikkan name taken by Vode’ade, and nearly a synonym for Diamond’s Men. Also the name of the Amavikkan symbol representing Diamond’s Men, which is inspired by Akar Hinil’s symbol; it is the Umakkar surrounded by the Broken Fetter and then surrounded by twelve waves- one for each systems army of the original GAR. 

**Freedom Marks.** The Amavikkan tradition of tattooing sacred symbols, particularly the Broken Fetter, on themselves after achieving freedom as a mark of self-ownership and method of expressing bodily autonomy. 

**Thought I saw a mythosaur.** Mando’ade idiom roughly equivalent to ‘I’m just seeing things’. 

**Ek masa nu ... ka/ki/ku** . Amattaka. Translates roughly to ‘I am .... he/she/they’. [ [ Further reading ](https://fialleril.tumblr.com/post/165851367756/tatooine-introductions).]

**Ad’ika**. Mando’a. Literally ‘little child’. Like most Mando’a, very contextual, but generally a familiar term of endearment. 

**Jat’urcir.** Mando’a. Literally ‘Good meeting’, typically translated as ‘Well met’. 

**Su cuy’gar.** Mando’a. Literally ‘You’re still alive’, translated as a formal ‘Hello’. ‘Su’cuy’ is a derivative used as an informal ‘hello’, similar to ‘Hi’. 

**Vode’ade.** Mando’a. Literally ‘Sibling’s children’, more accurately translated as ‘Children of the Brotherhood.’ The colloquial term for all members of the Vode culture that did not actively serve in the GAR, including those clones that were too young to have been shipped out, those that were decommissioned, biological children of Fett clones, or non-clone adoptees into the culture. The term Vode as a title typically refers only to clonetrooper veterans, but can be used as a catch-all for all members of the culture. 

**Haat, Ijaa, Haa'it.** Literally ‘Truth, Honor, Vision,’ a Mando’ade phrase said to mark a vow, similar to ‘cross your heart.’ 

**Vode’aliik**. Mando’a. Literally ‘Sibling’s armor marking’ or ‘Sibling’s sigil’, more accurately translated as ‘Mark of the Brotherhood’. The emblem of the Vode/ade. Based on the Republic Bendu, only with several spokes on the gear removed to make the center resemble an Arubesh ‘V’. The Diamond’s Men variant, worn only by Diamond’s Men and developed simultaneously to the Anumakkar, is identical except for the dotted segments being seven instead of eight in number. 

**Alor.** Mando’a. Literally translates to ‘head’, as in ‘head of an organization’, used in several compound words to describe various types of leadership, including being a catch-all honorific on its own for a leader of any kind. 

**Chntk.** Sleantah. An elected community leader, typically responsible for carrying out sensitive tasks involving outsiders. 

**Mand’alor**. Mando’a. Literally ‘Head of the Mandalorians’, the title of the leader of the Mandalorians. Typically Basic-ised as Mandalore, and translated as ‘King’, though a more accurate translation would be ‘War Leader’. More a cultural and spiritual icon than a traditional politician, regardless they are the head of state, an absolute authority in Mando’ade culture and law, and the role is a very active one. 

**Cin Vehtin (planet).** Adopted homeworld of the Vode, a variable terrain mid-size planet in the ENT system. Notable locations on planet include Aloriya, the capital city, and Di’base, the headquarters of Diamond’s Men. The name is Mando’a; it translates to ‘New Beginning’. 

**Skydiver.** Sometimes called ‘Werd’kyr’, ‘Krayt’ike’ or ‘Leia’ade’. A reptilian species native to Cin Vehtin’s desert region. Carnivorous, with large elongated jaws, capable of flight, with scaled wings, and very large, with an average wingspan of around three meters. Most notable for their extremely effective dive-bombing hunting technique, and their unique camouflage; their backsides are darkly colored scales, anywhere from medium brown to black (trending towards black) to assist with maintaining their body temperatures, and their undersides have reflective scales, which allow for them to reflect either the terrain or, when maintaining a high enough altitude, the surrounding atmosphere. This facilitates their hunting style and allows them to remain undetected by their prey even in the barren desert. They are known to prey on young near/humans if given the opportunity, but rarely will attempt to take on an adult. 

**Cyar’ika.** Mando’a. Term of endearment, roughly equivalent to ‘sweetheart’. Root word is ‘cyare’, which is commonly translated as ‘darling’. In the Vode culture, commonly used to describe a romantic partner that one is not married to yet, similar to boy/girlfriend. 

**Aliit.** Mando’a. Generally translated as ‘clan’, both a formal, legal relationship and a more fluid, personal one. Generally used to describe close family. 

**War Hells.** Based off of both real and rumored communal experiences of the Vode during the Clone Wars, and inspired by the Corellian Hells, a cultural idea native to the Vode describing a series of hells one’s soul might be damned to relive eternally. Like the Corellians, the number and details of the hells vary from author to author, but the agreed upon canon of hells include Kamino, Geonosis, Mimban, Ryloth, Umbara, and the ‘Void’, which is not a planet itself but instead reflected a common fear of being exposed to the vacuum of space or set adrift. A common curse is ‘Damn you to....’, with Geonosis being the most common hell to damn someone to. 

**Osik.** Mando’a. Literally ‘dung’, used often as an impolite exclamation. 

**Lothcat.** A carnivorous mammalian species with large ears, native to the planet Lothal. [ [ Further reading. ](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Loth-cat)]

**Gathering Day.** Also called Vote Day, a major holiday on Cin Vehtin, marking their new year and celebrating the anniversary of the Galactic Senate vote that officially recognized them as sentient and recognized their rights. Many Amavikkan who integrate with the Vode’ade shift their observance of Marukeppu to the week surrounding Gathering Day due to the two holidays sharing similar themes of emancipation, new years, and recognition of kin, and in Di’base it is common to combine the holiday with Kashka-Makkat. It is traditional for those Vode’ade that claim a particular unit to gather on the holiday for at least a full 24 hours, which is the origin of the name. It is also traditional for new members of units (both adopted and born) to be officially recognized and inducted into the unit on Gathering Day. 

**Chrono.** Generalized term for any time-keeping device. 

**Riduur.** Mando’a. Translates to ‘spouse’. 

**Te masu em lukkema.** Amatakka. Translates to ‘you are my freedom’. See entry ‘You are my freedom’ for more information. 

**Mand’alor.** Mando’a. Title of the Mandalorian head of state, typically Basic-ized as ‘Mandalore’. Typically translated as ‘King’, more accurately translated as ‘War Leader’. 

**GAR.** Initialism that stands for Grand Army of the Republic. 

**Umakkar.** Amatakka. Also called ‘the Storm’. Symbol of Lukkamar, consists of two concentric spirals twisting in opposite directions. Associated with Lukkamar, change, and the wrath of nature. 

**Marokeppu.** Amatakka. The central celebration of the Amavikkan, traditionally a week-long affair during the one week a year that all three moons on Tatooine are full, celebrating their history, culture, and coming freedom. Off Tatooine, it is common for Amavikkan communities to shift their observance of Marukeppu to more closely reflect their own emancipation date or another appropriate holiday. [[Further reading.](https://fialleril.tumblr.com/search/marokeppu)]

**Chip.** Fett clones were fitted with static identity chips, often used as a failsafe to tell individuals apart, implanted after decanting. Post the Vote, some clones chose to have theirs removed, and as part of the other sweeping changes made to the decanting process, this practice was adjusted so receiving an identity chip was optional. 

**Your File.** Cin Vehtin keeps public records on all residents of the planet, documenting public information about that person, including accomplishments, places of residence, and schooling/professional records, and officially recognized family. A practice dating back to the Personnel Records of the GAR. 

**Mitter.** Slang for a Broadcast Transmitter-Reciever; a radio. 

**Ba’vu.** Mando’a. Shortening of ‘Ba’vodu’, which translates either as ‘Aunt’ or ‘Uncle’; like all Mando’a kin titles, the term is gender neutral. 

**Bentu Depurak.** Amatakka. Translates to ‘Reckoning of the Masters’. [[Further reading.](https://fialleril.tumblr.com/post/169639171576/wait-does-bentus-name-mean-reckoning)]

**Ceremony of Return.** Amavikkan tradition when someone who has been sold away from the community manages to return, the sister ceremony to the Vigil for the Lost. The ceremony lasts a year, and begins with an informal ceremony where each member of the community with a personal relationship with the person wets their hands in a bowl of water, then marks the person, while declaring the name of the person and their relationship to them. Once the person has been named, they name themselves aloud and their relationships, and the Grandmother of the community ties a jerba cord around their wrist, which they will wear until a full year has passed, at which point they will be fully integrated back into the community. [[Further reading](https://fialleril.tumblr.com/post/108969181296/because-it-appears-we-share-a-common-interest-in)]. 

**Bolo Ball.** Sport commonly played among the Mando diaspora. Called 'Meshgeroya' in Mando'a, which literally translates to 'the beautiful game', it is also sometimes jokingly called ‘the seventh action’, acknowledging it as one of the few universal facets of Mandalorian culture, like the Resol’nare. [[Further reading.](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Limmie/Legends)]

**Apparently it’s traditional.** On Cin Vehtin, once basic education is completed (at 20 or the species equivalent), it is traditional for the former cadet to perform a tour of service in either Diamond’s Men, the Protectors (Jedi or Naar), Coruscant Guards, or Republic Navy, usually as a member of the Republic Naval Marine Corps, which is what replaced the GAR. 

**Ramikadyc.** Mando’a. The state of mind of a supercommando, that they can do or take anything to achieve their objective. 

**Mandokarla**. Mando’a. An adjective describing someone or an action as the epitome of Mandalorian virtues. 

**Vod’ad.** Mando’a. Literally ‘sibling’s child’, in this context nephew. 

**Kyr’ika.** Mando’a. Derived from the word ‘kyr’, meaning literally ‘end’, but having a close association with the word ‘death’ as it is the root of the word for ‘death’. Combined with the diminutive suffix, becomes the affectionate nickname ‘Little Death’ or ‘Little End’. 

**Kami’uun.** Mando’a. Vode’ade specific slang for a slaver or anyone that participates in slavery. 

**Riduur.** Mando’a. Translates to ‘spouse’. Like all Mando’a titles, gender neutral. 

**Earned your paint.** Among the Vode’ade, armor may be claimed and worn at the age of 16 (or species equivalent) but the right to decorate said armor must be earned- known as ‘earning your paint’. Originating in the informal GAR tradition of rookie or ‘shiny’ troopers having to face battle with their company before being allowed to don their company’s color, this is a highly interpretive process, typically performed by completing a Battle Rite or an act of equivalent courage. 

**Atin’la utreekov**. Mando’a. Roughly translates to ‘stubborn idiot’. 

**Di’kut.** Mando’a. Idiot, literally someone who has forgotten their pants. 

**Ni ru’sirbur nu’slanar, Boba.** Mando’a. Translates to, ‘I said I’m not going, Boba.’

**Ner gai nu’Boba**. Mando’a. Translates to, ‘My name’s not Boba.’

**tion mar’eyir ni?** Mando’a. Translates to, ‘How did you find me?’

**Ni ceta.** Mando’a. Formal ‘I’m sorry.’

**Tion sirbur ibac?** Mando’a. Translates to, ‘How can you say that?’

**Me’ven.** Mando’a. Exclamation of confusion or disbelief, like ‘Huh?’

**Ner vod, ner ori’vod , jorhaa'ir ni.** Mando’a. Translates to, ‘My brother, my best brother, talk to me.’

**Ni su’oyayc.** Mando’a. Translates to, ‘I’m still alive.’

**N’eparavu takisit, ner ori’vod.** Mando’a. Literally, ‘I eat my insult, my special brother’, a colloquial, informal ‘I’m sorry, my brother.’ 

**Nimku.** Amattaka. Translates to, ‘One with the power to choose’. 

**Beskar.** Mando’a. The trademark metal used by Mandalorians to forge their armor, found only on a few planets, and known for its ability to withstand specifically lightsabers. 

**Mirshmure'cya.** Mando’a. Literally ‘brain-kiss’, slang for a Keldabe Kiss or head-butt, both the familiar gesture of affection and the attack. 

**Holoproj.** Slang for Holo Projector; displays holo footage for an audience. 


	18. Author's Notes and Credits

AND DONE.

So. I can explain myself. 

There I was, trying to write the next chapter of BFtLoCM, and having some trouble figuring out where I wanted to go with the chapter. So I think to myself, I’m going to take a break, read some fics, and maybe find some inspiration. If not for this chapter, then maybe for some fleshing out of future arcs. And I end up deciding to bite the bullet and read the Double Agent Vader series. You know, officially educate myself, maybe get some inspiration for some future arcs and flesh out Arreru’s past, find some more vocab that’s not used in Desert Storm. And oh Boy Howdy did I get more than I bargained for. 

Two months, a magical trip through a rabbit hole, and _no_ sleep later, I place this offering before you and retire to nap and self-castigate some more for not reading fialleril’s stuff sooner. If you’re reading, fialleril, my deepest apologies, and a shoutout to DivergentClouds, formerly AnalogRain, for inspiring this journey. 

My official rationale for what’s going on is this: the Amavikka, while they’re Arreru’s people and the stories got shared with the Vode (and there is a story there, I might write it later I might not), are hardly universal among the general slave population of the galaxy. Fialleril never meant for them to be universal. So it makes sense that in the Galaxy Far Far Away, there are several slave cultures that might mingle a little (it is the slave _trade,_ after all), but are largely separate. That gives me room to borrow the slave culture from [ AmayaNatsuya ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmayaNatsuya/pseuds/AmayaNatsuya)’s Lead Me From Fear To Love, too, which I also greatly appreciate. The only edit I have to make to LMfFtL’s fannon to make them co-exist is saying Sleantah and the connected slave culture is much more closely tied to Zygeria and their trading partners/former empire, while the Amavikka are almost purely Tattooinian with some dispersing into the rest of the Huttese empire and a light diaspora, and the only edit I have to make to DAV is one of the several languages that's common on Tatooine is Sleantah. And those are both easily believable, you don’t even have to squint that hard at either ‘verse. 

The big thing you have to reconcile is mind-wipes. I’ve made it fannon in the Cin Vehtin ‘verse that they are possible (what do you think reconditioning is?), and that’s supported in LMfFtL, but not in DAV. But that makes sense too, because the whole foundation of the Amavikka’s resistance movement is the idea that being able to remember and know stuff is one of the few things that slavers can’t touch and your greatest asset. So they would be horrified by it if it was a thing on Tattooine, and it would definitely figure into their stories _somehow_ if it was, but it isn’t, so it doesn’t. Guess Hutts and Zygerians just have different attitudes about how to handle their slaves, or maybe Hutts don’t have access to the technology, I’m not sure. 

At any rate, the next question is why don’t the mind-wipes take the Amavikka stories? Tor obviously got all mystical with it, because that’s the framework he had to work with, but I’m going to get all meta and scientific with it, because I can. 

The thing about the human brain and how it learns and remembers things (at least to our current understanding) is that it’s all based on how your memories are connected. The super basic stuff, like breathing and muscle memory, happen on the deepest, most instinctual level, and in some cases don’t even require your brain at all. In theory, a memory wipe could take that, but it would be difficult and leave you a vegetable. Not useful to a slaver. The next level up is deep, foundational memories (also called un/subconscious memories); the stuff you don’t realize you know until you’re reminded of it, and half the time you can’t remember where you learned it, but still define your worldview and basic behavior. Stuff like a language you’re truly fluent in, basic math you don’t have to think about, how to go to the bathroom, ect. Subconscious cultural/social cues, like body language and visual signals that we aren’t really aware of unless we think about them, are also included on this level. Again, could be taken in theory, but would leave you essentially with a mental toddler that has to be re-taught everything and that’s usually no good to a slaver either. Then there’s defining memories or long-term memories, things like your family, your specific experiences, and stuff you’ve learned intentionally, that define your conscious (emphasis on conscious) idea of yourself, and your surface level memories (also called short-term memory), like what you had for lunch yesterday or that dumb thing that happened last week. It’s possible to naturally forget long term memories, and short term memories are almost always forgotten, so both of those are easy to take. Basically all a mind-wipe deals with is those last two levels, for obvious practical reasons. 

Now how remembering stuff works is all of your neurons in your brain work together in a network, certain groups of neurons firing up when certain parts of the brain are stimulated by external stimuli, and we call this phenomenon memories. Our individual memories are all connected (see associations, like a certain activity reminding you of an old boy/girlfriend), and thinking about certain memories strengthens those connections (that’s how short term memories can become long term memories), sometimes to the point it’s hard to tell individual facts and ideas apart. This is especially common at the unconscious level. Memories are experienced wildly different from memory to memory and person to person, and it’s way more complicated than I’m making it out, but that’s the basic gist to my knowledge. How a memory wipe works in this fanon is the people who developed the technology basically figured out how to target the neurons in the parts of the brain that contain those conscious memories, and cause strategic brain damage to those neurons to cause you to forget all your short term and most of your long term memories, while leaving the deeper unconscious stuff alone so the slavers don’t have to re-teach you how to go to the bathroom and speak and stuff. It’s not an exact science, which is why some long-term memories can survive in part or in whole, so a “partial reconditioning” where they just wipe one event or one fact from your memory isn’t a thing (sorry Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind fans) but they can vary the amount of damage they do somewhat to try and preserve some of the knowledge of more skilled slaves (like medics or accountants, for instance). It’s always a gamble and having a slave be a “blank slate”, so to speak, when they are sold is very advantageous for a slaver on a lot of levels, so it doesn’t happen often. Some slaves, like field laborers and gladiators, aren’t typically wiped at all because due to their duties they aren’t exposed to anything sensitive like a house slave would be. Generally speaking you are either wiped or you’re not. Anyway, that’s how you end up with a slave culture that can keep a secret language going despite routine mind-wipes, but not stories. 

That’s also how the slaves descended from the Amavikka can remember bits and pieces of their stories even after they’re mind-wiped, and even more when they talk about it with other Amavikkan. For most of the Amavikkan, their stories are so closely tied in with their culture and language and basic sense of self that it’s impossible to actually remove them completely without putting them in that toddler state. It would be like trying to make someone forget the concept of gender as they know it, it’s just not going to happen without some serious damage that would make a slave worthless. Jogging memories or re-teaching them to yourself through others telling you about them or some combination thereof, is a proven way to mend some of the neural connections in the wake of brain damage caused memory loss in actual medical science, so it’s not hard at all to imagine most Amavikkan keeping just enough of their stories to find each other, piecing what they got together, mixing in a dash of Sleantah culture (and Vode culture as the case may be), and building upon that to get a new chimera culture that looks a lot like the Amavikka but still has some differences- like the very Vode attitudes of universal brotherhood and actively recruiting/bringing in others, which are not usual for the secretive, selective Amavikkan. Also a different understanding of egalitarianism/genderfluidity that is more Mandalorian than Amavikkan, but still has some definite overlap. Combined with that penultimate lesson of the Amavikka- keep your silence, especially around slavers- means that the Zygerians don’t even realize that their Tattooine-sourced slaves are keeping those little bits and pieces, because if an Amavikka person can forget to keep their silence they’ve already forgotten everything else anyway. 

Does this mean that other, similarly firm subconscious behaviors and ideas also survive mindwipes? Yes. Yes it does. If, say, a devout Christian was wind-wiped, they probably aren’t going to be able to quote you the whole Book of Names, or even remember all of the characters in the Bible, but they would probably still be able to tell you the broad strokes. God said let there be light, made everything, stuff was good, then stuff was bad and that’s why people are bad/vice versa, Jesus was born and died and both those things are super important, and then maybe some stuff from Revelations. What details they do remember, and what their subconscious minds fill in some of the blanks with, is going to depend largely on the individual, but all the basic major plot points are still going to be there for a truly devout Christian or anyone else that has a deeply internalized religion or culture, even if they don’t remember their own names or the names of their families. Or if, say, you or I were mindwiped, we probably aren’t going to remember the plot of A New Hope, but we’ll remember a lot of the themes and imagery, if only because they’re common across a lot of our media (underdog stories for the win!) and be able to recognize the patterns in new media we see, or be surprised by the subversion of those patterns without quite understanding why. It also means that basic personalities and habits don’t change- a slave that’s had it beaten into their heads to act like a slave all their life is still going to act like a slave, a person that’s sarcastic reflexively is still going to be sarcastic, you’re probably going to keep a tic like caressing the rim of your helmet, and it also means that subconscious memories like a flower reminding you of your mom’s perfume are still going to be there. You might not be able to explain some of the connections you’re making or the triggers, why you have that tic, or what the context for a memory or association actually is, but it’d still be there. Which is how you end up with Kaminoans reconditioning clones so they still retain their training, some small subconscious quirks, and little traces of memories, but largely forgetting who they were before. 

(Now, which came first, the Kaminoan reconditioning or the Zygerian mind-wipes? Are they related at all, or just convergent technological evolution? And how does the Force techniques that mess around with memories, up to and including the technique called Revan's Cure, which are what Bariss is referencing in Regret Exile, figure in? That I’ll let you decide.) 

Of course, you might be asking now, that’s all well and dandy, good duct taping work, but why did it have to be Tor? Are the Alverds the Skywalkers of Cin Vehtin, or what? 

Well, no. Partly it’s because slavers don’t tend to take Diamond’s men as trophy slaves in the first place (I will be explaining why in a later story, but that tendency is also part of the reason Diamond and most of his family gave up on Tor so quick) and partly because Tor and Tal are really the first Fett clones with the right background to do what Taroa did. Lots of Fett clones have been inducted into the Amavikka, sure, and even more have at least heard the stories, particularly in Di’base, where they're a creche staple- the Amavikka influences aren’t as strong in other parts of Cin Vehtin, Aloriya and such, but in Di’base they’re nearly as strong as the Vode culture, if more low-key- but very few Vode'ade internalize them and make them part of their subconscious identity. Tor and Tal, thanks to an experience being captured by pirates with Arreru and Boba (yes, we will be getting to that part in BFtLoCM, and that experience is why Tor is so adamant that it’s Arreru and Boba coming for him and not his parents, though to be completely fair he kind of conflated all four of them in his memory) took it on board and internalized the culture much more than any other Fett clone, really. For them, it’s as much a part of their subconscious as Vode culture. So the only question was, which one? I could do both, but then they would reinforce the Vode culture in each other more than the Amavikka culture, which isn’t what I wanted in this story. The Vode are still there and visible in Tor’s subconscious behaviors/stories/language, but I really wanted it to be an Amavikka story spiced with Vode ideas, rather than the other way around. So it had to be one or the other, and Tor drew the short straw unfortunately. His more methodical, calculating personality lended itself better to the story than Tal’s more brash, adventurous self. 

So.... yeah. Thanks for coming to (what turned into) my TED talk, and I hope you enjoyed Dreamweaver. 

  
  


PS: Did you know in the long-long ago, back when Boba was a bit character with only three lines, he had a wife in the EU? True Story! [Link](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Sintas_Vel)

CREDITS (I normally don’t worry so much about crediting this thoroughly, but fialerill finds it really important, so in tribute to them): 

Tatooine slave culture, including but not limited to Ekkereth, Ar-Amu, Leia, the dance form bakkru, the sacred sigils (with a few exceptions I will list below), and the vast majority of the Amattaka vocabulary and stories belong to [fialleril](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fialleril/pseuds/Fialleril). 

Lukkamar (called Lukka in the Desert Storm series), the gesture of remembrance, the ‘my face is Ekkereth’s face, my heart is Ar-Amu’s heart’ saying, the ‘there is no want, there is no need, there is only what must be’ saying, and a few other details are from [blue_sunshine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sunshine/pseuds/Blue_Sunshine). 

The story of Ebra and the secret of tzai was written by [ kiwisson ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwisson/pseuds/kiwisson). 

The story of Mitta was written by [triscribe](https://triscribe.tumblr.com/search/mitta). 

Sleantah slave culture, including the vocabulary, belongs to [AmayaNatsuya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmayaNatsuya/pseuds/AmayaNatsuya). 

Arreru and the idea that is the basis for the Cin Vehtin ‘verse were originally [tanarill’s](https://archiveofourown.org/series/536638). 

Cody, Gree, Boba Fett, and Korkie Kryze are all cannon. Star Wars itself belongs to Disney currently and was originated by George Lucas. 

You may also note inspiration from Beatrix Potter, The Man in the Iron Mask, Beauty and the Beast, Django Unchained, The Prince of Egypt, and several other movies. There are also several references to several songs that I also don’t own. 

Everything else is mine, including but not limited to Tor, Layla, Bali, Tal, Mira, their families, the stories of First, Umar and Taroa, some of the names/designs of the sacred sigils, the name Lukkamar, the word taroa, jerba ribbons, and the rest of the Cin Vehtin ‘verse. 

If anything has been credited incorrectly, please let me know and I will update the credits.


	19. Amavikka Symbols, a Visual Supplement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Yooo y'all I made this when I was writing this and have low key have wanted to put this here forever but I couldn't figure out how to put images in a chapter, I legit didn't realize you just copy+paste images in.)  
> (As my good friend would say, I am, on occasion, the big dumb.)  
> (Enjoy anyway.)


	20. Dreamweaver, a Visual Summary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also drew this forever ago. Credit to me.


End file.
